Underground
by The Typewriter Girl
Summary: Scott is terrified when Stiles is seriously injured during a dangerous mission underground. Will he be able to get his friend back to safety in time before the ceiling collapses, burying them alive? As always: whump, a generous dollop of bromance, and some deliciously drawn-out peril! :)
1. Chapter 1

"I dunno, Scott. This place is hella creepy."

"Calm down, will you? We'll be out of here soon enough."

Scott's gaze flickered nervously around the dank tunnel as he carefully trudged forwards, Stiles babbling behind close at his heels. As much as the alpha didn't want to admit it, the musty underground passageways also made his skin crawl. The walls were cracked and dirty, dimly lit by buzzing yellow lamps placed few and far apart along the seemingly endless maze of corridors and turns, illuminating scores of impossibly huge tangled spiderwebs like a Halloween freakshow. Amongst the ubiquitous silver strands clung gooey dewdrops that dripped to the sodden ground below, collecting in murky puddles with tiny plattering sounds that echoed off the stalagmite-littered ceiling. It was a setting pulled straight from a horror film, but the most disturbing factor was the faint tang of blood and mold that singed the damp air, making the werewolf's stomach churn even more uncomfortably. There was this nagging pull in his gut that screamed they should turn around and go back— but if they were going to get the bestiary, _they needed to keep going._

"Thirty _seconds_ wouldn't be soon enough," Stiles muttered, vigorously rubbing his hands up and down his arms in an attempt to quell his goosebumps. "Any place that requires you to go through a secret trap door in the woods and climb down a rusty old iron ladder to get to it, means that good things probably don't happen here."

"That's because they don't," Scott replied seriously, wrinkling his nose as he stepped over a small pool of cloudy water. "This is where Kate tortured Derek, remember?"

"Yeah, you'd think the bitch would bother to clean up a little before her next sadistic playdate," Stiles bit out darkly, frantically batting a sticky cobweb out of his way with a look of disgust. "Ugh, Stiles does _not_ do spiders!"

"Shh!" Scott hissed, glancing nervously over his shoulder. He could have sworn that he heard a low rumbling sounding from within the walls...

"Scott, chill," Stiles countered, eyeing a dark stain on the wall suspiciously. "There's only room for one anxiety-ridden teen in this friendship, and that's me. You said Kate's out shopping with Alison, right? She isn't down here."

Scott bit his lip. A bead of sweat rolled down his temple despite the frigid atmosphere; something didn't _feel_ right.

"Yeah, but…"

"Right. So all we have to do is find her creepy torture-room, grab the bestiary, and high-tail it out of here before a psychotic murderer emerges from the shadows and we become victims of the latest slash-horror flick," Stiles quipped nervously, frowning as the dim halogen light above him flickered. He quickened his pace to catch up to Scott, hovering close by his side. The werewolf glanced at him, too unsettled to smirk. They strode onwards for a little while, weaving around questionable puddles and bantering half-heartedly about dog jokes before Scott abruptly stopped in his tracks, squinting pensively in the low light.

"Dude!" Stiles hissed as he stumbled to a stop, narrowly managing to avoid smacking his face into Scott's shoulder. He blinked, falling silent as he noticed Scott's strange stance. "Scott?" He asked anxiously, lowering his voice. "Scott, what is it?"

"I think I know where we are," The alpha replied, eyes darting analytically around the dark surroundings. He broke into a brisk pace, Stiles hurrying after him. "I-I think I remember, it should be just around that corner," he breathed, pointing to an upcoming turn in the cavern.

The two jogged to the end of the tunnel, heels kicking up mud and grime as they splashed through murky puddles, footsteps echoing off the walls. Scott felt his eyes flash red as a flashback assaulted his mind from the time he was last here, in an attempt to rescue Derek. His stomach knotted uncomfortably as he remembered his co-leader's face after he had dragged him out of the cold ruins; pale, bloody, and barely conscious, his usually piercing green eyes dull with pain. The thoughts scattered as they quickly rounded the turn, skidding to a halt as a rusted steel door came into view. The pair stood and stared at it, chests heaving.

"Scott," Stiles panted, turning to his friend. "Is that it?"

The werewolf stepped forward, eyes running up and down the weathered frame without hesitation.

"Yeah," he breathed. He reached out and gently brushed the cold metal with his fingertips. "This is it."

Stiles darted around to his left, fruitlessly tugging at the door handle. The silver knob rattled stubbornly in his hands, refusing to budge.

"Damn it, it's locked!" He gritted out, cursing in frustration as he seized his hair with his hands. "Now how are we supposed to—"

The teen stopped, swallowing his words as Scott turned to him, flicking up a clawed index finger with a deadpan expression.

"Ah, right. Duh. Werewolfy nail-action, awesome."

Stiles stepped back as Scott inserted a long, razor-sharp claw into the keyhole, jiggling it around as the human peeked over his shoulder, transfixed. After a few moments, a small "click" sounded as Scott twisted his finger a final increment to the left.

"Oh dude, that is so cool," Stiles stated openly, in awe as Scott pulled his finger out of the lock. "You've gotta do that for the cabinet where my dad keeps all the police files."

Scott grinned, but his smile quickly faded as he faced the door again. He could smell small hints of fear emanating from the other side, leftover from the previous torture that had been executed beyond the steel frame—

_Blood._

_Sweat._

_Agony. _

And there was a part of him —one larger than he'd like to admit— that was terrified to the point of nightmares of being captured and taken here by the hunters. He had lost track of how many nights he spent lying awake at night, convincing himself that he wasn't a monster; but then there was the Argents, dead-set on killing him for being just _that_—

And knowing it hurt him more than any number of broken bones.

Scott was jolted from his thoughts as he felt a hand on his shoulder. He turned around, the qualms in his chest lessening as he met Stiles's encouraging eyes. _How does he always know what I'm thinking?_ Taking a deep breath, Scott turned the handle and pushed.

The heavy steel door swung open slowly, creaking in agony against it's eroded frame. The pair cautiously stepped forward, glancing around the dark space uneasily. The room was large, illuminated by a single hanging lightbulb that flickered dimly, as if it were a failing heartbeat struggling not to drown in the surrounding darkness. A few trails of water trickled down from the leaky ceiling, collecting in foul-smelling puddles in the corners of the room where long strands of cobwebs fluttered gently with the change in air pressure. A battered wall of barbed wire stood by the back— the very same from which Derek had hung a few weeks ago. Scott winced as he spotted a shower drain a few feet away from it on the floor, trying not to dwell on what it's purpose was. However, the most disturbing of all was that the room was empty… _Too empty._

Scott whirled around, his eyes darting around the room with increasing panic as he realized everything was missing— The terrifying machine that Kate had used to electrify Derek was gone. There were no tables or chairs for drafting plans and or confronting hostages. No semi-automatic weapons, knives, chains, or tasers hung on the empty walls, ready to be used in violent persuasion tactics. Even the small spotlights that illuminated victims on the barbed wire were absent. The bad feeling in his gut amplified.

"Scott."

The alpha whipped his head towards the sound of his friend's doleful tone, jerked from his uneasy observations. Stiles was standing stock-still back at the entrance, staring at something taped on the back of the door. Scott quickly moved forwards, halting by the human's side as he spotted what it was. A single yellow sticky-note was stuck on the weathered steel, three words scrawled across the paper in all-caps.

_MISSED ME, BITCHES._

Scott's heart dropped into his stomach like a lead weight, nearly making him double-over with anguish as he realized what it meant:

_ Kate had moved out._

They were in the right place; this _had_ been her secret base, complete with torture equipment galore, hunting plans and the bestiary, safe and sound and kept away from supernatural eyes... But somehow she must have known that they were looking to steal the ancient book, and that they would come here to find it. So she relocated.

_Clever bitch._

Before he could stop himself, Scott shot his hand out and ripped the sticky-note from the door, violently crumpling it in his fist before chucking it hard across the room.

_"Damn_ it!" He cried, slamming his fist in the spot where it had been. The cold metal stung his fingers as it dented beneath his force, protesting loudly with a jarring clang. The balled-up paper skittered into a corner, ricocheting against a concrete wall before eventually spinning to a stop in a pool of clouded water.

"Scott, it's okay," Stiles offered, attempting to pull the werewolf's arm from the door. Scott tore his sleeve from the grip, turning away from his friend. He was practically quaking with rage; _they had been so close._ Distantly he was aware that Stiles was addressing him in the background, but he couldn't focus on his voice over the rumbling sound. _Wait…_

"—nd you talk to Alison, and we'll figure out—"

"Stiles, shut up!" Scott ordered sharply, tensing as he tuned in to the vibrations. He closed his eyes as he pinpointed the noise, his unease reaching a unbelievable crescendo that made his skin practically tingle with the urge to run. _It was coming from beneath their feet…_

Stiles immediately clamped his mouth shut, slightly taken aback as Scott barked the command, but trepidation quickly replaced his disconcertment as he watched the alpha suddenly stiffen, the color draining from his olive complexion. There had been a tremor in his friend's voice; one that he didn't hear very often, and one that indicated that something was very, very _wrong._

Then without warning Scott's eyes snapped open, revealing two terrified chocolate orbs. Before the human could even open his mouth to ask what was wrong, the werewolf lashed out and grabbed his arm, nearly crushing his bones in his grip as he frantically tugged him towards the door.

"Stiles, GO! _MOVE!"_ He demanded, heart hammering wildly against his ribcage in his haste to pull his friend out of the room. Stiles clumsily stumbled after him into the tunnels, eyes wide with a mixture of confusion and fear.

"Scott? S-Scott, w-what—"

"We have to go! _NOW!_ It's—"

But the words died in his throat, murdered by dread as the distant rumbling suddenly grew louder, making the very air tremble with a reverberation twice as loud as thunder—

And then the ground jerked.

Scott stumbled as Stiles was thrown against him, nearly knocking the two of them to the ground before Scott's reflexes kicked in and he regained his balance, frantically pulling his friend up.

"Scott!"

"Stiles, _RUN!"_ He screamed desperately, yanking his friend forward as the earthquake violently shook the underground cavern around them. The pair scrambled for purchase as the ground threw their weight back and forth, nearly knocking their feet out from underneath them as they stumbled down the dark tunnel, dragging each other up when one of them lost their footing. The walls moaned and shuddered with the pressure, spewing out dust as they cracked, making the lamps spark and blow out. Stiles yelped and shielded his eyes as one shattered next to him, showering the pair in tiny shards of hot glass.

"Stiles—!"

"Scott, _LOOK OUT!"_

The alpha didn't even have time to look up before Stiles barreled into him, knocking them both out of the way just before a dangerously large stalagmite fell from the ceiling, embedding itself deep into the earth where he had stood a millisecond earlier. Scott jerked onto his back, staring up in horror as the long daggers of rock trembled and swayed from above, breaking free from their tightly-packed quarters and began plummeting down upon them. He gasped and twisted his body to the side as two more fell and crashed to his left, smashing to pieces in a small plume of dust. Stiles grabbed him with both hands and violently yanked him up by his shirt, shoving him ahead.

"GO!" he screamed, narrowly scrabbling out of the way of another stalagmite. _"GO,_ KEEP _GOING!"_

They sprinted as best they could as chunks of the celling rained down around them like air-bombs, crashing inches from their legs with startlingly-loud booms that echoed off the walls and added to the rumbling chorus that pummeled their eardrums. Clouds of grey dust kicked up into the air like smoke, overwhelming the small passageway at terrifying speed as more rubble came crashing down from the ceiling. The the pair began to cough and wheeze as the thick plumes began invading their lungs, coating their throats and stinging their eyes as they struggled to blink through it and keep moving.

_"Scott,_ the—!"

Terror clutched the werewolf's chest as Stiles's rasp cut off with a yelp somewhere behind him, followed by another loud boom.

"STILES!"

The cry ravaged his dry throat as he slipped and fell, hitting the ground hard in his haste to turn around. He arched his back, hacking out a mouthful of dust as he tried to see through the cloudy air, but to no avail. _Wasn't he right behind me?_

"Stiles! Where—"

Scott trailed off, choking as a piece of rock hit him square on his spine, knocking him flat on his stomach again. _He couldn't breathe._ Gasping for breath, he rolled over onto his side, looking up in terror as a loud groan snaked along the top of the tunnel from within the walls. Panic seized his chest as he realized what Stiles was trying to tell him—

_The ceiling was going to collapse._

"Stiles!" He wheezed desperately, digging his claws into the quaking dirt as rubble continued to pummel him from above.

_"Scotty…"_

No human would have been able to hear it. But Scott, choking and sputtering on the ground with few senses but his werewolf hearing left, was able to pick out the weak rasp from the thundering chaos around him. The small utter had trembled with the desperate fear one had when they thought they were about to die.

With one last monumental effort, Scott tried to crawl his way back to where he last heard his friend, but collapsed after a few inches, retching from his violent coughing. The ceiling groaned louder, shuddering dangerously as another large group of stalagmites shook loose and crashed to the ground by the alpha's side, successfully enveloping him in a thick plume of ash. The last thing Scott heard was a loud crack, followed by a symphony of thunder as the top of the cave buckled and collapsed around him, swallowing his body whole.

* * *

><p>Hey readers, welcome to story #5! :D At the end of my last fic, most of you requested more Stiles!whump with extra Scott-bromance, so here it is! That's my favorite combo too ;) Please review to let me know what you think; new chapters are in progress and coming soon. Love, The Typewriter Girl.<p> 


	2. Chapter 2

It was dark.

Scott regained consciousness slowly, gradually awakening to several sharp pains scattered throughout his body, the center of agony emanating from his back. He hovered on the edge of awareness, at first not quite able to string together his muddled thoughts. _What was… Was he dead?_ No, he could hear his heartbeat pulsing in his eardrums… And there was an odd pressure surrounding him from all sides, making his limbs ache with a dull heaviness that he couldn't quite pinpoint. With difficultly, the werewolf blearily cracked open his eyes, initially startled as he peered into surroundings just as pitch-black as the inside of his eyelids. Panic seized him— _was he blind?_

Suddenly terrified, he sucked in a sharp breath, only to have it be abruptly cut short as dusty air surged down his windpipe and into his dry lungs, which protested with a round of violent coughing. Tears sprung to the alpha's eyes as his body clenched and wracked painfully, expelling what felt like a year's worth of dust that tore up his raw throat like a score of tiny knives. Scott choked out the last of it, saliva running down his chin as he groaned, now hyper-aware of an exceptionally sharp pain radiating from his spine. Weakly, he tried to push himself up off his stomach, only to realize that he couldn't move. Scott tensed as realization shot through his mind like a bullet, ripping through the fog clouding his brain as his memories suddenly came flooding back, barreling into his mind all at once.

_Running down the tunnel—_

_Kate's empty room—_

_The earthquake—_

_The ceiling collapsing—_

_Stiles._

The last thought jolted through him like electricity, sending a fresh wave of dread through his aching frame. _Shit, shit, shit!_ He blindly felt around him with trembling hands, gritting through the agony in his back as he bucked wildly against the heavy pile of rock currently crushing him, heart rate skyrocketing when he realized that he was literally buried alive underneath a layer of rubble. He sputtered, choking against the dirt as he desperately wriggled beneath the fallen cave's iron grip, letting out an agonized scream as he felt the crushed vertebrae of his spine grate against each other with each thrust. His heart sunk; he had a broken back. He simply wasn't strong enough to break free.

_"HEAL,_ damn it!" He screeched in frustration, his cry muffling against the ground. Grinding his teeth together, he sunk his claws into his palms to trigger the healing process.

Slowly but steadily, the bones knitted themselves back together, popping into place with unnervingly loud cracks. Scott impatiently jerked against the fallen rubble as they mended, ignoring the sharp stabs of pain as he bashed his limbs against the heavy blanket of wreckage above him. Handfuls of dust shook loose and rained down upon his frame as the debris shifted and shuddered above him, yet stubbornly refused to let him out. The alpha panted harshly, pushing out ragged breaths through gritted teeth as sweat rolled down his temples and dripped off his chin. He tensed, preparing himself as the last cracked vertebra snapped back into place, and then the world flashed crimson as he let out a mighty roar, unleashing all his supernatural strength in one powerful shove.

The crumbled rock above him jerked like hot popcorn on a frying pan, slipping over his shoulders and cascading down around him as he broke the surface and arched his head back, sputtering as he sucked in a clean lungful of air that turned out not to be all that clean. He propped up his arms against the large chunk of rock that had crushed him, using it as leverage for wiggling his legs free. Then he crumpled to his hands and knees in relief and exhaustion, covered head to toe in dirt and bits of rock. He panted as he blinked his surroundings into focus.

Somehow— miraculously, the cave had emergency lights. Small fluorescent strips lined the top of the cracked walls, bathing the tunnels in a dim but blessedly visible blue light that illuminated the dusty air like fog on a chilly morning. Scott figured they must have flickered on shortly after he was knocked out, although he hadn't noticed them during the journey to find Kate's room. The second most surprising was that only part of the ceiling had collapsed; the thick layer of stalagmites. Scott tilted his head back, observing the arched cement frame high above him; it was crumbling in places, but mercifully held back the thousand-ton slab of earth that would have surely killed them if it had fallen…

Still_ could_ kill them.

Scott jerked up, scrabbling to his feet.

"Stiles?" He called out anxiously, feeling out blindly in the dim tunnel. The huge plumes of ash had settled somewhat, meaning that he had been out for some time.

"Stiles!" He shouted louder, feeling sick as his unheard cry echoed off the walls. There was no response. He waded forward through the smoke-like dust, anxiety spiking as he yelled his friend's name again and again, only to be met with the eerie silence of the cave. Almost hysterical, he crashed to all fours and started scrabbling blindly at the rubble with his hands like a mad dog, ignoring the stings from small shards of glass that embedded themselves in his palms. Then almost immediately he froze, a streak of rationality gracing his emotions.

_Use your senses._

Scott forced himself to take a deep, albeit shaky breath and tune into his hearing, letting his ears be his eyes. He could hear the gravel-sized rocks beneath his feet grinding together beneath the pressure of his stance. A series of tinkling sounds made by thin trickles of water scattered about several locations around him. The echo of his labored breathing ricocheting off the smooth walls… And in the midst of it all, he heard what he was searching for; a heartbeat, one second to his own. It was slow, but steady and strong.

Eyes snapping open, the werewolf sprung forward, nearly tripping over the slippery debris in his haste to reach the spot where the pulse emanated. Dropping to his knees as if his feet were kicked out from underneath him, Scott frantically began shoving heavy rocks aside, nails digging into the crumbled earth with the fervor of cornered prey. After what seemed like an eternity, he brushed aside one last handful of dirt, revealing the slack, bloodied face of his best friend.

_"Shit!_ No, nononono…!" Scott breathed, the mutterings escaping his tongue in a broken chain of anxious squeaks. He let out a string of curses as he frenetically tossed aside more rubble, back muscles straining as he cantilevered a particularly large chunk of stalagmite off of the human's torso. Then he hooked his grip underneath the teen's armpits and hauled the unresisting body backwards, dirt and rubble slipping off his legs as the wreckage uncoiled it's grip from the unconscious figure. Lungs working overtime from fear and exertion, Scott laid his friend out a few feet away, immediately falling to his knees to check him over.

Stiles was covered in a film of grey ash that clung to his hair and eyelashes and dusted his lips like powder, making the bruises on his cheek and arms look darker than they actually were. There was a nasty gash on his temple from which a small stream of blood trickled down across his cheek, presumably the injury that rendered him unconscious. Aside from that and the small cuts and bruises littering his cheeks and arms, he appeared to be unharmed. Scott wiped the dirt from his friend's face as he called his name again and again, shaking him vigorously by the shoulders when he failed to rouse.

"Stiles!" He cursed, frustration worming into his expression. "Come _on,_ wake _up!"_

Somewhere in the back of his subconscious mind, the human must have heard his brother's cry, for the next moment his eyelids fluttered weakly and he spasmed, choking on a horrible round of coughing that made his body contract with the effort to expel the dust clogging his system. Scott braced Stiles's shoulders as he wracked, eyes screwed shut in apparent agony as the fit passed. The lanky teen groaned once he finished, gasping as he caught his breath back. Scott collapsed back on his knees, blowing out a relived sigh.

"Sc'tt…" Stiles slurred, peeling his eyes open. He grimaced, shakily trying to push himself up onto his elbows, but failed miserably and flopped back down with another pained moan. "What're… We aren't dead?" He asked weakly.

"No," Scott replied, shooting a nervous glance back up at the creaking ceiling. "...Not yet."

"Good," Stiles panted, letting his head fall back against the rubble. "'Cuz I'll be damned if we end up dying from an _earthquake_ after all the shit we've survived."

Scott frowned, eyeing his friend worriedly. Something about him was off— the way his forehead was creased with pained wrinkles. The way his chest jerked with tiny breaths that weren't quite deep enough. The slight squeak in his words, as if his throat was pulled tight. The coughing fit had passed, which should have left him breathing regularly. _So why…_

Before he knew what he was doing, Scott reached forward and tugged up Stiles's dirt-stained shirt, heart dropping like a lead weight as he saw what was underneath.

The large slab of rock that he had lifted off his brother's body had apparently done more damage than he initially even thought to consider. Stiles's torso was a watercolor painting of mottled indigos and deep plum-wine purples, speckled with crimson blotches that stretched across his pale skin like a gruesome work of art decorating the right side of his ribcage. The last three bones were dented inwards, clearly broken. Stiles craned his neck and glanced down to see what Scott was staring at, paling considerably as his eyes skittered over his bruised flesh.

"What're you… Oh."

The words left his lips in a crestfallen whisper, mirroring the sinking stone in Scott's chest. The alpha quickly tugged the thin cotton back down, averting his gaze as the seriousness of their situation hit him like a freight train. They were in a series of poorly-lit underground passageways littered with piles of jagged debris and broken glass, overshadowed by a layer of dusty air that scratched at their lungs and clouded their oxygen. It was a question as to whether or not any of the upcoming tunnels were caved in, which would quickly seal their fate of entrapment— but if not, it was still a long journey back to the entrance. He had no idea if Stiles had any internal damage in addition to his broken ribs and probable concussion, but it was going to be difficult for him to travel regardless...

Scott turned back to Stiles, chocolate eyes flickering anxiously over his friend's expressionless facade. Stiles was eerily still with the exception of his jerky, shallow breathing, hands twitching against his sides as he stared blankly up at the ceiling, cinnamon irises ablaze with quickly-mounting fear. Scott leant forward and squeezed his friend's shoulder, meeting the human's eyes with what he hoped was a reassuring look and not the crippling apprehension he felt.

"Hey," He said firmly. "We're gonna get you out of here."

Stiles swallowed thickly, his gaze clinging to Scott as if his friend was the only thing keeping him from slipping beneath the rapids of a rushing river. His eyes flickered observantly over his friend's ash-dusted features, a tentative smirk smarting the edge of his lip.

"S-screw you and your wolfy powers," he muttered shakily. "There's not a single scratch on you, bastard."

Scott choked out a breathy laugh, relieved to see that his friend's sense of humor was still in tact. Then he watched as his friend's eyes wandered upwards, scanning the high ceiling before surveying the long tunnel of wreckage to his right.

"That was a big one, huh…" Stiles murmured quietly, a faraway look in his eyes. "Like the ones that happen every hundred n'fifty years? I hope… I hope my dad…"

He trailed off, an edge of worry halting the words in his throat with a croak. Scott bit his lip, suddenly remembering the people above ground. His mom was working the evening shift— his chest clenched uncomfortably at the thought of how strong the hospital's foundation was. Then he was smacked with a notion of common sense, and he quickly thrust his hand into his back pocket, fumbling for their potential ticket out of there. He pulled out his phone and swiped the screen, shoulders deflating as he saw the the four empty bars that indicated there was no reception. Stiles followed suit and dug his phone out of his jeans, wincing with the shift in position. No service.

"Guess not even werewolves get good coverage, eh, Scotty?" Stiles jested half-heartedly, poking Scott's knee with his phone. Scott didn't laugh. Instead he glanced up at the celling as a low groan echoed down the cavern like a snake, eyeing the unstable-looking concrete framework uneasily. If it caved in, they would be dead meat. But until then… He had no idea how long it would stay in tact.

"Come on, we're getting out of here," he said, shuffling around so he was situated behind the human's shoulders. "Let's get you up."

"Mm… Well this won't hurt a bit," Stiles muttered sardonically, peering upwards at his friend's grim expression. Scott nodded, pressing his lips together sympathetically as he snaked his hands beneath the teen's arms.

"On the count of three?" He suggested. Stiles clumsily jerked his hand up, making a thumbs-up.

"'Kay…" He croaked reluctantly.

"Okay," Scott breathed, tensing in preparation. Stiles stiffened, bracing his palms against the rubble. "One… Two… _Three."_

Scott winced as a strangled scream tore from his friend's throat as he gently pulled him to his feet, trying in vain not to jostle the injury. Stiles shuddered in agony as he struggled to get his feet underneath him, tears stinging his eyes as the broken bones dug painfully into his flesh with the change in position. He wobbled, feeling dizzy and ill as the sharp throbs washed over him, pounding against his sore scull.

"F-fuck!" He squeaked, face screwing up with the strain as he twisted his neck to the side, pressing the back of his head into Scott's chest as if his life depended on it. "F-f-fuck, I think'm gonna' be sick…" He gritted out, breath hitching as the werewolf quickly hoisted him up and looped an arm around his chest. Scott bit back his alarm as he watched the color drain from his friend's face, tightening his grip as the human sagged, a cold sweat breaking out across his pale forehead.

"Oh god, Scott…" He groaned, swallowing a dry lump in his throat as the nausea assaulted him head-on. "P-please don't 'lemme throw up with broken ribs..."

But then the pain drained away, lessening the burn in his stomach considerably. Stiles blinked open his eyes in surprise, panting as he righted himself to a more vertical stance. He looked to Scott, who was a bit paler in complexion, but smiling at him guiltily.

"T-thank you," The human wheezed, glancing at the inky black lines spidering up his friend's arm. He still felt ill, but at much more manageable levels. "That would've been bad."

"Yeah," Scott breathed, gaze glued forward. The two stood and stared down the long, darkened tunnel in silence for a moment, listening to their breaths intertwine with the small water drips that echoed off the walls. In a way the cavern was kind of eerily beautiful, in how the dust hung weightlessly suspended a few feet above the ground, painted silvery-blue by the small fluorescent lights. Beautiful, except for the way Stiles's shallow, labored breathing overshadowed the atmosphere like a dark cloud.

"You ready?" Scott asked. It was more of a statement than a question.

"Yeah," Stiles responded, tightening his grip on his brother's shoulder. "Take us home, Lassie."

Normally Scott would have shot him a withering side-glance, but this time all he could do was look at his friend pensively, a stroke of affection smarting his chest. Even in the most dire of circumstances, Stiles was always armed with a dog joke.

Without another word, the pair slowly strode forward over the wreckage, hands clasped around each other in case the other should slip and fall, placid gazes fastened to their freedom as they wandered together into the dark abyss.


	3. Chapter 3

Sometimes Scott wondered what his life would be like if he had never been turned into a werewolf.

He thought about it now, as he trudged over piles of ash and fallen rock, struggling to keep the wheezing teen to his left upright. He certainly wouldn't be here, choking on dust-filled air and trapped underground with his best friend, whose ribs were currently in shambles— all for some ancient, supernatural book that they never even got their hands on.

A year ago, they would have been splayed out on Stiles's bed, chewing on Red Vines as they drilled each other for midterms. But realistically, that would've lasted maybe twenty minutes before they got off track and started doing their best impressions of coach Finstock, drowning in a chorus of unmanly giggles they would forever deny. Now homework seemed laughably frivolous compared to the much bigger problems they faced— the problems his own, twisted powers had dragged them _both_ into. Dangerous scuffles with other packs, complicated rituals and emissionary meetings, supernatural killings that plucked off their loved ones one by one, like ripping petals from a flower.

"Scott…"

He was yanked from his thoughts as the hoarse wheeze tickled his ear, just as Stiles suddenly stumbled and sagged beside him, digging his slim fingers into Scott's shoulder for support. The alpha snapped his focus over immediately, quickly shifting his friend up as his eyes skittered over the pale face currently scrunched up in pain beside him. They had been walking for some time now, each passing minute incremented like a ticking time bomb by Stiles's increasingly labored breathing.

"Stop," the human rasped, voice raw as he hiccuped for breath. He was pale, a dewy film of cold sweat dotting his forehead. "S-Scott, I c-can't… I gotta' take a break."

The werewolf immediately directed his friend over to the side of the tunnel, frowning worriedly as he lowered him to the ground. Gently shifting Stiles up against the wall, Scott knelt beside him, letting his gaze flicker uneasily across the human in an optical examination. A good deal of color had drained from his friend's already pale face, made more prominent by the cool lowlight that clung to their features in a bleached glow. His eyes were closed and his head was tipped back against the earthen walls, forehead tensed as he sipped in shallow, strained breaths that squeaked like rusty bicycle gears. His fingers curled protectively over his bruised torso, trembling slightly.

"Dude… You okay?" Scott asked, features pinched in concern as he stared at his brother. Stiles cracked open his eyes, blinking tiredly as his gaze ran up and down the alpha's perturbed expression.

"Dude," Stiles parroted, smirking slightly through hooded eyes. "You ever gonna put away those puppy eyes?"

Scott blinked, lips twitching. Stiles always teased him for his big browns.

"Hey, I can't help it," he stated, narrowing his eyes good-naturedly. "I'm just naturally adorable."

"Yeah, I can see why Allison fell for you," Stiles returned amusedly, wincing as he scooted himself up further against the wall. "Adorable brown eyes and the super-attractive ability to sprout a crop of hair all over your f-face—"

The teen barely got the sentence out, breaking off as he choked back a cough, reluctant to let another round of hacking jostle his injury. His body went rigid as he fought to swallow the tickle in his throat, at war with the urge to hack up his lungs. Scott's hands hovered uneasily over his friend's arms as the fit passed, leaving Stiles panting doggedly as he fought for his breath. The human pulled a pained smile as his watery eyes caught the alpha's fretful look.

"I'm okay," he croaked, patting the werewolf's knee assuredly. "S' just all this damn dust."

Scott glanced backwards down the long cavern. The atmosphere was speckled with hundreds of the tiny particles, floating in the damp air like clouds of aggravated sand kicked up from the sea floor. It was as if the dust clung to his very breath, worming into his lungs and coating his throat with an irritating dryness that just kept building up the further they travelled; he could only imagine how much worse it was for Stiles.

"Good thing you're not an asthmatic anymore, eh Scotty?" Stiles muttered sardonically, nudging him half-heartedly with his elbow. The alpha just stared sadly at his friend, unable to laugh. With a heavy sigh, he unfolded his legs and sat back against the wall, scooting next to him. They sat there in silence for a while, shoulders touching with backs pressed against the cave, listening to the cold echoes of the tunnels mingle with their breathing. It wasn't long before Stiles's head dropped gently against Scott's shoulder, eyes closed.

"Hey, don't fall asleep," The alpha murmured, gently nudging his friend's knee. Stiles mewled drowsily in protest.

"Chill, m'not," he mumbled.

"Then open your eyes."

Reluctantly, Stiles obeyed, peeling his cheek from the werewolf's burgundy sleeve as if his head weighed thirty pounds. In short, he felt like crap. His head hurt, but it was nothing compared to the fire throbbing in his ribs. Every time he took a breath, he only got to inhale half as deep as he would have liked before his lungs pressed against his injury, sending a wave up agony rippling up his spine. He wanted nothing more than to just let Scott take away his pain and fall asleep against his shoulder, but they still hand a long way to go… He just hoped he would be able to make it.

Scott reached out and took his hand to take some pain, but only a few black tendrils snaked up his arms before Stiles recoiled, eyes snapping open in objection.

"Hey, stop that," He ordered, pulling back. Scott let Stiles bat his hand away and turned his face to the side, hiding his eyes. He had already been secretly leeching Stiles's pain the entire time, drawing out the human's discomfort in the tiniest increments— drips just small enough to slip past his friend's radar unnoticed, because he knew Stiles would refuse the help otherwise.

A distant rumble made Scott freeze. Stiles turned to him in concern, noticing the alpha's sudden stiffness.

"Scott?" He started hesitantly, unsure of what his friend was tuning in to. Before he could ask, Scott threw his arms around the human's shoulders and pulled him close, shuffling his feet backwards as if he was trying to sink back into the wall.

"Hang on," The alpha warned, his breath hot and dry against Stiles's ear. A second later, the cave trembled, rattling the rubble beneath their feet as the walls shuddered. The pair gripped each other tightly as the ceiling creaked and moaned with the aftershock, shaking loose handfuls of rock and dirt that rained down in sparse waterfalls around them. Scott felt the fabric by his collar pull as Stiles balled his hand into a fist, trapping his shirt in a tight clutch as the two kept their eyes glued to the unstable ceiling, silently praying that it would stay in tact. Finally, the shaking died down, shuddering to a stop with one last unsettling crack as a chunk of concrete broke free from the ceiling, crashing to the ground fifty feet down the tunnel.

"Holy…"

Stiles licked his lips, unable to finish his sentence. Slowly, he shakily unclenched his fingers from Scott's shirt as the alpha abruptly stood up, looking uneasily above them.

"Come on," he said urgently, reaching out his hands to help Stiles up. "We need to keep going. The next aftershock could make the celling collapse, for good this..."

Scott trailed off as he glanced back down, catching his brother's wide-eyed stare. Stiles's amber gaze was glazed over with unhinged fear, hands trembling in his lap as he sucked in tiny gulps of air, adam's apple bobbing up and down as he struggled to swallow an impending panic attack. Scott mentally kicked himself for not slowing down to consider that the aftershock may have rattled him. He quickly bent down, griping the human's shoulders assuredly as Stiles jerked his gaze to the floor, breath stuttering as he tried to mask his anxiety with a crooked smile.

"G-geezus, Scott," he breathed, shakily wrapping his cold fingers around his friend's sleeve. "M-melodramatic, much?"

"Ah, sorry," Scott squeaked guiltily, features pinched in a wince as he rubbed his palms up and down his friend's thin arms. "Don't worry. We're gonna get out of here. We _will."_

* * *

><p><em>"You're lucky, Scott. Broken ribs are no laughing matter."<em>

_"Mom," Scott whined, exasperated as he flopped back on the couch, tucking his arm behind his head. "I'm fine now, you don't need to worry."_

_Melissa followed him into the living room, crossing her arms as she stared him down with concerned maternal look number five. She was wearing her lavender scrubs today— the ones dotted with little blue flowers. They were Scott's favorite._

_"You can't blame me for being worried," she stated defensively, pursing her lips in a look of tortured love only a mother could wear. "If you had broken your ribs last year, you'd be…" She trailed off, turning her head to the side as she bit her lip. "You'd be dead."_

_"But mom—"_

_"But nothing!" She cut in, eyebrows knitting together as she stepped towards him. "I don't care if you didn't even puncture a lung, it was still a serious injury! Broken ribs aren't just painful, Scott. they make it very difficult to breathe. You were alone out there— Know how long you would have lasted? Before your oxygen depleted and y-you… You..."_

_The alpha's expression softened as his mom choked off, her warm hazel eyes suddenly going glassy with the prick of tears. Immediately, his defensive attitude drained away. This was the woman who had raised him, sheltered him and loved him unconditionally for seventeen years; she had every right to be worried. He was selfish to overlook how she must feel. Quietly, Scott stood up and gently took his mother's hands in his own, making her look up and meet his gaze._

_"Mom," he started softly, squeezing her fingers. "Look, I'm sorry. I'll be more careful… But I can heal myself now. You don't need to worry."_

_Moments passed. Melissa studied him, almost shyly as she took in her son's glimmering chocolate eyes. _Just like his father's,_ she thought sadly. There were days when she lied awake at night, unable to fall asleep because every time she turned off her bedside lamp, she saw them— only they were yellow, lit up like a thousand fireflies that reminded her just how terrified she was deep down inside. Terrified of the supernatural dangers Scott's powers attracted, and how easily they could rip away her only boy._

_She sighed, cupping her hands around her son's face as if she were afraid he would float away if she let go._

_"I know, sweetie, but sometimes I can't help it… I'm your mom, after all."_

The memory replayed over and over in Scott's mind as the pair continued down the endless line of dark passageways, which only seemed to stretch on further as they continued. A month ago, he had healed from shattered ribs of his own. Now, his mother's ominous past warnings echoed against his eardrums, making him sick with dread as he stole glances at his friend's injury. Stiles was waning quickly, his cheeks stained pale pink as he gasped for breath, sagging against Scott's side. He was stumbling more frequently now. Scott always caught him and hiked him back up, each time bearing more of the human's weight, but each time he struggled a little bit more to do so. As much as he didn't want to admit it, he was tiring as well; it was grueling work to maneuver both of them over the piles of rubble, even for a werewolf— and the drain from leeching Stiles's pain only quickened his growing exhaustion. Still, he refused to stop.

"Scott..." Stiles blew out his friend's name in a weak puff. A bead of cold sweat rolled down his temple and dripped off his chin. "Are we… Where're we?"

The alpha clumsily wiped his brow with the back of his hand and sniffed the air, snorting as he expelled the dust from his stinging nostrils. _Nothing._

"I still can't smell anything," he panted, a twinge of frustration worming into his gut. "But I think we're going the right way."

He could tell Stiles caught the waver in his voice. Scott had been trying to pick up their scent trail from earlier to follow it back out to the entrance, but the dust and debris had masked whatever traces were left. In truth, he had been blindly leading the two of them solely based on instinct.

"Whoa, Stiles!"

Scott couldn't stop the alarmed squeak from jumping past his lips as the human suddenly swayed dangerously to the side, nearly pitching to the rubble below before the alpha grabbed him by the shoulders and steadied him. Stiles teetered, just barely managing to maintain his balance with the werewolf's help.

"S'rry… Dizzy," he mumbled, eyes unfocused as he readjusted his grip on his friend's shoulder. He swallowed dryly, nauseous again. This time a chill had seeped into his skin, staining his bones in with an icy, dull ache that made his muscles quiver around Scott's shoulders. Distantly, he remembered feeling like this a couple winters ago, when a nasty flu had swept throughout the school, reducing almost everyone to feverish, vomiting messes. Almost everyone, meaning everyone except for Scott, Issac, and the twins. _Damn werewolves._

"How're you holding up?"

Stiles shivered, subconsciously curling his fingers over his injury as if it would help quell his stomach.

"Honestly, just trying not to throw up on your s-shoes, dude."

Scott's eyes flickered anxiously over his friend. Stiles was pale, gaze flickering around sluggishly as if he were in a drugged haze. He looked positively ill. The alpha surreptitiously drew in more pain, but halted as he heard the all-too-familar rumbling in the distance. He didn't even have a chance to vocalize a warning before the ground jerked in a single, violent spasm that knocked both of them to the ground, not even giving the werewolf a second to anchor his balance. Scott yelped as he was knocked to his knees, heart plummeting as an agonized scream tore from his best friend's throat beside him.

Stiles was so deep in his exhaustion that he nearly failed to register the sudden jolt of the aftershock. All he knew was that one moment he was fighting to stay upright with Scott's arm around his waist, and the next his feet were kicked out from underneath him and he was crashing hard on his hands and knees. He couldn't help the animalistic cry that erupted from the depths of his diaphragm as his bruised ribs slammed against the debris, sending a shockwave of hyper-sharp agony throughout every nerve. The pain coursed through him, boiling the contents in his stomach to unbearable extremes. He couldn't hold it in any longer. The naseua from his pounding scull and torso was too much.

"Sc'tt…" He whimpered, voice strained as he hiccuped pathetically with his worn-out lungs. "M'gonna be…"

But that was all he managed to get out before his stomach lurched miserably, constricting the muscles beneath his shattered ribs as he retched violently onto the rubble. It was as if a blazing-hot bullet had been fired into his gut, blinding him with pain unlike anything he had ever experienced as it ripped through his injury. Then he figured he may have blacked out a little, because the next thing he knew he was hanging limply in Scott's grip, the alpha's arms holding him up by the armpits.

"—iles, _shit!_ Hang on, hang on!"

Scott knew it would happen as soon as they hit the ground. He watched in horror as his brother turned white and choked out a warning beside him, grimacing in pain as his hand shot to his ribs. The alpha only had a second to scrabble to his feet before Stiles violently choked out the contents of his stomach, gagging horribly before he abruptly went slack, nearly face-planting in his own bile before Scott caught him under the armpits.

_"Stiles!_ Stiles, can you hear me?" He barked in terror, face contorted in a chaotic composition of sympathy and alarm. He dragged his friend backwards, propping him up against the side of the cave before awkwardly falling to his knees to check him over.

Stiles seemed to be coming around, although it didn't seem like he wasn't fully there. His head lolled weakly against the cave's crumbling surface as he wheezed, eyes cracking open so just the smallest slivers of cinnamon peeked through. His unfocused gaze stared right past Scott, fingertips twitching lightly against his thigh. A small dribble of saliva and bile seeped from his pale lips, strewn across his chin. His skin looked like bleached alabaster. The werewolf cringed in empathy; _that must have hurt like a _bitch.

"Hey… You with me?"

Stiles twitched in response, but otherwise made no indication that he heard his friend. Scott reached forward and used his sleeve to gently wipe the bile from his chin, then took the human's hand in his own, eyes flashing crimson as he drew in as much pain as he could. The inky snakes wriggled and shot up his arm in dizzying swarms, making the alpha screw his eyes shut as the hurt enveloped him like a blanket of fire. Soon multicolored blotches danced in his vision and he felt himself tipping sideways, forcing him to let go with a gasp. Panting with exhaustion, he shakily righted himself and clumsily scooted over beside Stiles, who had visibly relaxed against the wall. He figured the human was still too out of it to notice what he had done, because otherwise he would've been mouthing off in a frantic tizzy, scolding him about how he really shouldn't risk his health to take so much pain and _blah blah blah._

"Dude, you with me?" Scott tried again, wearily nudging his friend. Stiles's eyes were closed. His breathing was still shallow, but now much more relaxed. For a moment the alpha thought that he might have passed out again, but then he spoke up.

"….Mm."

A short groan, soft and scratched up and filled with bone-deep exhaustion. Scott interpreted it as a _"yes, but I would _so_ rather be asleep."_ The werewolf let his head tip back and rest against the cavern's flank, eyes blinking up tiredly at the ceiling. The last aftershock had ended just as abruptly as it began, but the single jolt was enough to loosen more of the concrete frame above them, which now had scores of spiderweb cracks splayed across it's curves like a map of Beacon Hills. He closed his eyes, tuning into the ambulance sirens wailing above ground. Fire engines and their blaring horns, tires screeching over the pavement in haste to save someone's life.

It could be his mother's.

It could be Allison's.

It _should_ be Stiles's.

The alpha pried his eyes open, turning wearily to his friend. Stiles was staring at the ceiling, seemingly back to reality again. His expression was eerily calm, jaw tense as if he were carefully controlling his features.

"...You okay?" Scott asked softly, eyeing his brother in concern.

Stiles swallowed stiffly, his lips pressed together in a thin white line. His chin quivered.

"No, Scott." He uttered blatantly, eyes still locked above him. "No, I am n-not okay. I'm f-freezing, I can't breathe, I just threw up and blacked out and I really, _really_ hate doing that, Scott. I really, really f-fucking _hate_ throwing up when my ribs are broken and hurt like a _b-bitch_, and meanwhile my d-dad—" he sucked in a breath, hiccuping on the word as his eyes suddenly went glassy, pupils blown wide. "M-y _dad_ is up there, maybe hurt, m-maybe dead— and I don't _k-know_ because we're st-stuck underground, Scotty! So no, I'm _n-not_— I'm _NOT_ okay!"

That was all Stiles managed to choke out before his breath hitched on a sob, the pooled tears in his eyes finally spilling overboard. Wordlessly, Scott quickly wrapped his arms around his brother and shuffled closer to him until their bodies were pressed up against each other. Stiles's icy skin shuddered against the werewolf's warm body heat as he clumsily tried wiping way his tears, suddenly embarrassed.

"Geez, you're like a fricken' f-furnace," He muttered shakily, lips pinching upward in the smallest smile. Scott held him tighter in response, and the human let his head fall back and rest against the alpha's shoulder. The two sat for a while, letting the dim lighting and silence of the cave wash over them. Stiles's breathing seemed worse, his wheezes deeper and shortened in length.

"I don't want to die down here, Scotty."

The cracked utterance drove a dagger through Scott's heart. This was his best friend. His brother. The _human._ It was his humanness that Scott loved, and his humanness that Scott feared, because that was what made him so incredibly fragile; now that fragility threatened to take his life away. Stiles was one who cried during sad movies, someone who dropped everything to help out anyone in need, and someone who constantly made sacrifices to ensure that his dad was safe— but Scott was always stunned by the lengths Stiles went to put himself in danger, all for the sake of the pack. Isaac, the twins, Derek, even Peter had werewolf abilities. Allison's sharpshooting skills were terrifying. Even Lydia wielded her banshee powers with stunning expertise when they needed it… But Stiles never let them exclude him from missions because of his mortality. He was always there with his beloved jeep and a baseball bat, ready to stand by their side with sarcasm as his primary defense.

And they loved him for it.

Scott stroked his thumb over the sleeve of Stiles's red hoodie, a new determination locked in his chest as he eyed the weakened ceiling.

"You're not going to, Stiles. I'm going to get you out of here... I promise."


	4. Chapter 4

It was like a panic attack.

Stiles had experienced his fair share of them over the years, starting with the one that struck him down in the middle of the hallway at Beacon Hills Memorial Hospital, right after his mother's last breath left her body in a soft exhale. He recognized the symptoms like old friends, and despised them like his worst enemies. The way his chest grew tight and stung as if his ribs were caught in a steel trap, paired with an overwhelming sense of impending fear that rattled him to the core. It was like he was drowning, sinking under waves of disorientation and dizziness spurred from his pathetic coffee-straw lungs.

That's what it felt like now, only the sense of impending fear was more absolute, and unnervingly calm. Calm, because he was starting to accept the fact that he would probably die down here. He felt funny. Floaty; as if he would drift up and out of Scott's grip any moment. His limbs felt weak and tingly, making each step a labor of infinite proportions, a foreign act that he wasn't quite sure how to execute. Reality was slipping away from him with each shallow, scratched-up breath, washed him in haziness as he trudged unsteadily by Scott's side. The fact was, he simply couldn't draw in a solid breath, and now it was catching up to him.

At first Scott denied his observations, but now there was no ignoring it; Stiles was fading. The alpha could only watch helplessly as his brother slowly deteriorated, sucking in short breaths that sounded like nails on a chalkboard. The human's slow but steady steps had digressed to uncoordinated stumbles that painted his red converse grey as he dragged them relentlessly through the rubble, hardly lifting his feet anymore as he sagged against his friend's side. Scott, despite his exhaustion, continued to draw in Stiles's pain, but oxygen was the real problem at this point. The human wasn't getting enough of it, and it was starting to show.

Thus, it really shouldn't have been a surprise when Stiles suddenly went limp, eyes rolling back in their sockets in a faint.

"Whoa, whoa, hey!" Scott cried, alarmed as he struggled with keeping his friend's new deadweight upright. "Stiles, no! Stay with me, buddy."

He shook Stiles harshly, but the teen just dangled loosely in his grip, head lolling back, the whites of his eyes peeking out from underneath his thick lashes. He was out.

"Shit," Scott muttered, cursing as he awkwardly crumpled to his knees. He tried to be as gentle as possible lowering the human to the ground, but his exhaustion had rendered him weak, forcing him to drop bonelessly with his friend onto the rubble below. Grunting, he scrambled to his knees and grabbed Stiles's shoulders, shaking him again to no avail.

"Stiles. _Stiles!"_

He shouted fruitlessly at his friend's slack face, unable to prompt a response. His worry ticked up a notch as he pressed two trembling fingers against the teen's neck; the pulse was weak and slow, and his chest was barely rising. Letting out a string of swears, the alpha's fingers flew over the prone figure as he bit down his panic, trying to remember the medical jargon he'd overheard from his mother over the years. Stiles wasn't getting enough oxygen— Scott thought back to when he used to get asthma attacks, and how his mother used to explain to his father what to do in case he should be struck down with a bad one.

_"Lay him down flat on his back, then tip his head back so his neck is straight. That way he'll be able to breathe easier."_

Scott quickly reached over and grabbed Stiles by the hem of his jeans, maneuvering his legs so that they weren't askew, which in turn straightened out his torso. Then he cradled his friend's cheeks in his palms, repositioning his head so that it didn't tip to the side.

_"If he still doesn't respond, expose his chest to the air, rub circles on it. Try to—"_

Fingers fumbling, he unfastened the cord on Stiles's red hoodie, tugging the thin fabric down as far as it would go. He thought about popping a claw and ripping the cotton open, but decided against it; exposing his bare chest to the cold air probably wouldn't do much in his friend's favor, not to mention that Stiles would probably kill him for ruining his favorite pullover. Instead he settled for kneading his knuckles over the human's sternum, massaging in gentle circles.

_"—tap his cheeks, slap him if you need to. Got that? Rafael, if your son doesn't wake up you need—"_

Scott followed suit, lightly slapping the teen's pale cheeks.

"Stiles! Come on, man, don't do this to me," He muttered fervently, pressing his fist harder against the human's chest.

Slap.

_"—to get the blood back up to his head. You need to slap him and—"_

Slap.

Stiles remained stubbornly unconscious, head rolling uselessly back and forth with each strike. Scott's panic mounted— He looked dead. He looked _dead!_ _What if he was dying?_ _What if he_

_didn't_

slap.

_wake_

slap.

_up?_

"STILES!" Scott roared frantically, features twisted with the strain of his shout.

_"—hit him hard. You should be good at that, Rafael… You've had practice."_

_SLAP._

Scott put all of his force into the last strike, fueled by the spark of his terror and his mother's last words. The hit rang out, echoing down the tunnel as Stiles choked on a gasp, head whipping to the side as his eyes scrunched shut against the blow. Scott collapsed backwards in relief, panting heavily as Stiles sputtered awake beside him.

_Thanks, mom._

"Hey, hey. You're okay," He breathed, clumsily gripping the human's shoulders to give him an anchor. Stiles twitched weakly in his grasp, breaths sounding wet and labored. Slowly, he peeled open his eyes and sluggishly focused on Scott, looking confused.

"...Sc'tt?"

"Hey," the werewolf murmured softly, forcing a small smile for his friend's sake. The human blinked slowly, his gaze glazed over as it wandered lazily around the cavern. His cheeks were blotchy, stained varying shades of watermelon from where Scott had hit him. He looked winded and rough, the same way he looked after a day of lacrosse practice in the rain.

"Wha'mn…?" Stiles slurred, seemingly only half-awake as his hand jerked clumsily, looking for something to hold onto. Scott took it and squeezed it gently, taking the opportunity to suck in more pain.

"You, uh… You passed out." He provided weakly, wincing a little with the delivery. He knew Stiles's sudden lapse in consciousness was bad. He knew Stiles would know how bad it was. The alpha could only watch as his friend registered the sentence, the smallest shadow of dread darkening his amber eyes as he realized the dire signs of what it spelled out.

"…Oh."

Stiles felt numb, quite literally. His face felt like it did after he had gotten his wisdom teeth pulled out last summer, only this time he didn't have the privilege of being high on laughing gas. He thinks Scott may have slapped him awake, but he all he could feel now was a slight tingling on his cheeks. His limbs weren't any better, all deadened by storms of pins and needles. Somewhere in the back of mind, he knew it was because he wasn't getting enough oxygen. Usually he was able to breathe again after we woke up from a panic attack, but this time his throat was just as tight as it was before he went down, his lungs just as restricted. He was slowly suffocating to death.

"—ey, keep your eyes open."

A pair of hands were shaking him by the shoulders now. Scott. Right, Scott was with him. Stiles reluctantly obeyed, blearily cracking his eyes open. He hadn't even realized that he had closed them. Slowly, he blinked the world back into focus, where he met the very worried-looking face of Scott McCall hunched over him.

"M' tired, Scott."

"I know, man, I know," The alpha muttered anxiously, voice cracking. Stiles couldn't tell if it was from emotion, dryness, or just plain puberty. Probably all three. "But we're almost there, I can feel it."

Scott's promise sounded empty, even to his own ears. They had been traveling for what seemed like an hour, hindered countless times by wrong turns and caved-off tunnels, but it was impossible to tell if they were even going the right way. Regardless, Stiles was pale, exhausted, and barely conscious. He was at the end of his rope, and Scott wanted to scream.

"M'cold…" Stiles whispered, breath hitching. His head rolled to the side as his gaze lazily flickered down to Scott's hand, which was holding his own, inky tendrils spidering up his arm. For once, he didn't protest. The werewolf used his other hand to tug the collar of the human's hoodie back up around his neck.

"I know, just hang on, we'll be out of here in—"

"Scotty… I can't feel m'legs."

Scott froze. Slowly, he bit back his fear and turned to meet his friend's half-mast gaze. Stiles was looking up at him with his big amber doe-eyes, the ones Scott simultaneously hated and loved so much. The usually bright cinnamon stare was clouded over with exhaustion, flickering with fear and… _Resignation?_

_No._

"No, no, it's okay!" Scott stuttered desperately, throat suddenly tight. He stumbled to his feet and grabbed his brother's arm, fingers digging into the thin knit of of his sleeve as he attempted to tug him up, but Stiles didn't even try to budge. He just kept staring up at him with his stupid, stupid sad doe-eyes, the tiniest twitch of a smirk smarting his lip as he observed Scott's efforts.

"Scott, listen—"

"No, no I _won't_ listen!" The alpha blurted stubbornly, frantically shaking his head like a toddler as he continued to pull on his friend's arm. "We're going to make it out! You're gonna get up, get _UP,_ dammit! You're gonna be just fine—"

"Scott, I c-can't—"

"Yes you _CAN!"_ He snarled, throat tight and hot. "We're almost out! _Stiles,_ just get the fuck_ UP!"_ He screamed desperately, eyes pricking with frustrated tears as he yanked pathetically on his friend's sleeves.

"Scott, stop," Stiles rasped, startled and transfixed by his friend's agonized attempts. "It hurts…"

The werewolf immediately loosened his grip, trembling as he stood there, eyes scrunched tight. He knew what was coming, and he refused to accept it. Reluctantly, he dropped Stiles's arm and fell to his knees in surrender anyway, making a fist in the earth beneath his palm. With effort, Stiles shakily stretched his stiff fingers out and laid them on his knee. Scott looked up at him with glassy eyes, a single tear spilling over and slipping down his dirt-stained cheek before falling to the ground like a fat raindrop.

"Hey," Stiles breathed, blinking tiredly as he lightly squeezed Scott's kneecap. He forced a small smile, which twitched weakly on his lips. "It's okay… Listen… I want you to take care of my—"

"Stiles—" Scott cut in, choking on his words. No. He couldn't listen to this, this _wasn't_ goodbye.

"Listen," The human pressed, hooded gaze glued seriously to his friend as he hiccuped on short, shuddery breaths, pausing in between his words to draw them in. He seemed to be using all his remaining strength on getting the phrases across.

"Take care of my dad for me… Make sure he doesn't overdo it on his eating… He d-did that when my mom died."

"No, stop it! You're not—"

"No, Scott," Stiles interrupted firmly, eyes bright with urgency. "You gotta' go… You gotta' leave me and get out before the c-ceileing falls… The next aftershock…" He paused, blinking heavily as he huffed out a ragged breath. "...It's ready to g-go."

Scott could only stare back at him in shock, heart bucking like a wild stallion beneath his ribcage as he processed what his best friend —his _brother_— was suggesting. Stiles seemed to catch his horror, or maybe he just knew what was going through his head (Stiles always knew), because he squeezed the alpha's fingers, which had somehow made their way into his hand.

"Scott, it's okay," He breathed, mustering the most reassuring tone he could manage. _Be brave, Stiles, _he scolded himself. He couldn't let his fear show, or else Scott would really never leave. He couldn't let his voice waver, no mater how much he wanted to give in to his fear and bawl, begging his friend to stay.

"No! No, it's _NOT_ okay!" Scott cried, teeth bared angrily as a fresh wave of hot tears spilled over and streamed down his cheeks, dripping off his nose. He furiously wiped them away with his sleeve, too distraught to let them run over his chapped lips and sink into his dry tongue. It was a lie. He could smell Stiles's fear, stinging his nostrils with a bitter acridity.

"Hey, hey... You'll b-be fine, Scotty… You're a true alpha," Stiles murmured, cracking a genuine smile. For a moment, it was as if his sallow complexion and dark circles melted away, replaced with a warm glow of affection the human generally wielded when they were sprawled out on Scott's rug, bickering over which superhero was the best as they paged through comic books on rainy days. However, the illusion quickly shattered a moment later, when Stiles choked wetly on his breath, flecks of crimson spraying out over his bottom lip.

Scott's breath caught it his throat as he stared at the horrifying splash of color on his friend's pale lips. The two locked terrified eyes as Stiles faltered, the smile slipping from his face. A second later his head flopped to the side, eyes rolling back into his head as his hand fell slack in Scott's hand.

"Stiles!_ STILES, NO!"_ The alpha screamed in horror, frantically jolting his friend by the shoulders. Stiles simply flopped limply in his grip, eyelids fluttering wildly. His chest spasmed with tiny jerks, seemingly unable to draw in a sufficient breath. Scott felt the same, hardly able to breathe as his heartbeat pounded against his ears like a drum, each beat louder and louder, driving in his panic like a doornail.

"I'm _not_ leaving you, you hear me?" He panted, slipping his hands underneath the prone form. If Stiles heard him, he didn't make any indication. Scott dug his heels into the earth, bracing his sore muscles as he hauled upwards. He bit his lip against the strain, willing the black dots in his vision to subside.

"Dammit, Stiles," he cursed under his breath, staggering upright with his brother in his arms. He was winded, thirsty, and absolutely exhausted. He had been drenched in a clammy film despite the frigid temperature, but he stopped sweating a while ago, which he guessed was probably an indication of how dehydrated he was. Stiles was heavy despite his thin frame, and Scott's knees trembled with the weight. He wanted nothing more than to let them buckle and collapse to the ground, drifting into a slumber that would take all his pain away— but he couldn't. It would be a sleep that he would never wake up from; one that _Stiles_ would never wake up from.

His best friend's life was in his hands now.

Scott took off, putting all faith in his instinct to lead him out as he shot down the tunnel as smoothly as he could. One minute. Two minutes. Seven. His limbs screamed as in protest, muscles burning with every step. The alpha ignored it, hiking Stiles up so that the teen's head rested against his chest instead of dangling over his arm.

"Hang on, I'm gonna get you out," Scott puffed, breath tickling the hair plastered to the human's forehead. He repeated the phrase like a mantra, his chant quickly growing hoarse as he coursed down the passageway, the cloudy air ravaging his lungs like a shredder. There was a turn coming up; Scott desperately hoped that it was the one with the entrance on the other end of the bend, because he was out of steam. Any moment he felt like his legs would give out, sending him crashing to the ground in a heap that he wouldn't be able to get up from. His throat felt charred as he wheezed and sucked in squeaky gulps of air, gasping almost worse than when he used to get asthma attacks—

But he glanced down at Stiles, slack and still in his arms, chest barely rising with tiny jerks. The small dab of blood was still smeared on his bottom lip, glistening like crimson oil. Scott gritted through his pain, letting out a mangled cry as he pushed through his exertion and ran faster, quickly closing the gap between him and the other end of the turn.

He came face-to-face with the iron ladder, leading up to the trap door entrance.

Scott immeditely collapsed to the ground, dropping Stiles in a less than graceful manner as he crashed onto his stomach. He took a moment to compose himself as he shuddered on the concrete platform, gasping like a fish out of water.

_They made it._

"Stiles," He wheezed, voice barely audible. He crawled brokenly to his friend and clumsily pulled him over onto his back, fingers fumbling. Stiles didn't respond as he was flopped over, pale and out like a light, eyes closed. Scott intended to press his ear to the teen's chest, but he was so exhausted that his head just ended up falling onto his brother's red pullover.

_Bu-bump… Bu-bump…_

It was slow, but it was there. The werewolf pulled himself upright, swaying as his surroundings spun sickeningly around him. He blinked hard, struggling to his knees. They were almost out. _Now he just needed to..._

Scott turned the weathered rung ladder, eyes wandering up the chasm to the trap door ten feet above before glancing back to Stiles, heart plummeting. How could he be so _stupid?_

"No, no, we are getting you out of here!" He insisted, pushing the words out fearfully through gritted teeth as he wriggled his hands underneath his friend, attempting to drag him up and over his shoulders, but his muscles spasmed painfully, screaming and jerking under the weight so that he slammed back down to knees. He tried again, to the same effect. A third time.

On their own accord, the alpha's legs crumpled beneath him, forcing him to drop Stiles to the ground as he cried out in frustration. They were so_ close, _but there was no way he would be able to climb up the ladder with Stiles over his back. He was entirely spent. Scott scrunched his eyes shut, choking on his anguish. He could hear the human's voice echoing in his head, jesting him with his signature "I-told-you-so" grin.

_"That's what you get for leeching my pain the whole way, Scotty boy."_

Scott clawed over to his friend's unconscious body, throwing his hands on top of him protectively as he shoved his face into the familiar red hoodie, letting out a sob.

"I didn't d-drag you all this way so we could get _stuck_ down here, you idiot!" He choked, curling his fingers into the soft cotton. He got it now. This was why Stiles insisted that he leave him, because he knew that Scott wouldn't be able to carry him up and out once he got to the ladder.

Always ahead of the curve, even with a crushed ribcage.

The tension in his chest increased, crushing his own ribs with unbearable grief. The werewolf tipped his head back, letting out an anguished howl that made the very air vibrate with his wallowing agony. It trailed off into a hoarse mewl as he ran out of breath, and the last of it echoed down the cavern as he fell limp onto his brother's chest, completely spent. He lay crumpled there, listening to Stiles's shallow breaths as silent tears slipped out from underneath his closed eyelids. This was his fault. If he had been a better alpha —a stronger one— he would have the strength to rescue the both of them. In a few hours, assuming the earth above didn't cave in on them from another aftershock, he'd have enough strength to climb up himself... But Stiles didn't have a few hours.

_His brother was going to die down here._

Scott sobbed weakly, his soft bawling slowly trailing off to dry hiccups as he let the darkness pull him away, making the fingers he had wrapped in Stiles's sweatshirt loosen their hold. He lost track of time. He didn't know how long he spent hovering on the edge of consciousness, mind gnawing at the edges of the black abyss that may have pulled him under, but he was suddenly yanked back to reality by the noise of heavy footsteps overhead, and what sounded like a rusty latch being pried open. For a moment his pulse ticked up— _were they being rescued?_ But the thought quickly dissipated. This had been a desperate, last-minute mission they had decided upon in secret; no one knew they were down here.

But then there was a loud clang, and the agonized squeak of a wooden door being wrenched open from it's rusted hinges. A new brightness illuminated the inside of his eyelids.

"Scott?"

The familiar shout rang down the chasm, hitting the teen's ears and sparking enough curiosity to make him blearily peel open his eyes. He raised his head, blinking the world into focus as he peered up towards the trap door— only it was open now, the moonlight streaming down into the tunnel behind the started face of Derek Hale.


	5. Chapter 5

Derek was straining spaghetti when the quake happened.

Despite what the rest of the pack assumed, he wasn't one to happily wolf down fast food for every meal, unlike _Stilinski._ He enjoyed cooking, and had a refined palette for all the homemade recipes his mother used to make. In a way, he was glad that Scott and the others didn't know about his secret— not just because they would tease him for it until the end of time, but because he still considered the kitchen as his sacred space for quality time with Thalia Hale.

That's why he was caught off guard when the low frequency of distant rumbling rattled his eardrum, interrupting the soft harmonies of "The Lengths" by The Black Keys he had playing from his stereo. He had paused, head ticking up in curiosity as he stopped rinsing the steaming noodles over the sink. A moment later, the ground had jerked like a crazed rodeo bull, throwing him off balance and making him drop the metal colander of spaghetti to the laminate tiles below, where it clattered with a loud bang. He had scrabbled back against the counter, tensely watching the soot-stained walls sway dangerously, violent tremors knocking books and lamps from the shelves as he silently willed the house —his family's house— to stay in tact. Miraculously, the shoddy wooden framing was still standing after the shaking finally died down, but the rooms were a mess with toppled possessions and dust that had shook lose from the ceiling, littering the charred hardwood floor. Afterwards he had stood up, a brief pang of sadness crossing his features as he eyed his mother's china that had tumbled from the top cabinets, now smashed in tiny blue and white pieces on the floor. Then he turned to the limp pasta strewn across the floor, sighing before bending down and picking it up.

But that was hours ago.

Now he was picking up the last of the debris, about to throw the final shard of crystal wineglass into the trash bin when he heard it; a long, mournful howl. It was faint, but it was there, his werewolf hearing picking it out amongst the chaotic echo of ablaze buildings, rushing broken water lines, and distant sirens from the other end of the woods.

_It was Scott._

Derek immediately bolted outside, head whipping around in confusion as the wail trailed off and disappeared. It sounded like it was coming from the far edge of the forest, but that didn't make any sense... _Why would Scott be over by the freeway?_ There was only the interstate, with a couple of miles of his private land in between. _Unless…_

The alpha knitted his brows together. He couldn't imagine why Scott would ever go back there, but his instinct drove him forward anyway, tugging him towards the trap door that held his darkest memories.

So he ran.

He sprinted, mind reeling with unease as he charged through the trees, curiosity and trepidation spewing out of him with every chilled pant. It didn't take long for him to cross the long stretch of timberland until he skidded to a halt before the weathered oak door he knew all too well, chest heaving as he stared at the rusted iron handle. He didn't remember much from when Scott had rescued him that day, but he remembered every sharp blade Kate dug into his flesh, every agonizing jolt of electricity she sent ripping through his nerves, and every wet brush her tongue left on his torso.

_The sick bitch._

Derek bent down, hesitantly reaching out towards the latch. Truth be told, he had another secret; one that made his cooking look laughably irrelevant. It had been a little over a month since he was held captive and tortured by the hunters, but he still suffered from night terrors of his time underground. He would never admit it, but opening the weathered trap door was like opening the gateway to his nightmares. _Still…_ Scott could be down there.

The lock snapped off with a sharp clang, mingling with the dry dissonance of the strained squeak the splintered wood made as he swung it open and peered down the long shaft, now illuminated with a faint stream of moonlight. He blinked in surprise as his eyes settled on what lied at the bottom of the duct; it was Scott, face-down and draped over… Derek squinted, heartbeat doing a funny loopy thing. _Was that…?_

"Scott?"

He barked, voice sharp and a fraction of an octave higher than usual as it echoed down the shaft. The teenager twitched at the shout, slowly dragging his head up and squinting against the new passage of light streaming from above.

"Derek...?"

The alpha flinched at the sound of the teen's voice, which sounded like it had been run through a paper shredder; groggy, cracked and hoarse.

"Scott!" He shouted again, louder this time as he quickly swung his legs over the side of the entrance and pushed off from the ledge. Cool air rushed past his ears, ruffling his hair as he dropped past the long ladder to the ground, landing gracefully on his feet with a soft thud. "Are you hurt?" He demanded, crouching down to shake the teen by the shoulders. Then his eyes skittered to the pale figure that lay unmoving beneath him, his stomach unexpectedly knotting. It was Stiles, who was pale and unmoving.

Scott shakily pushed himself up, eyes fatigued but wild and bright with bewilderment as he scrambled over into a sitting position, hands clasping at his former mentor's sleeve.

"Derek," He repeated, voice breathy and disbelieving, "H-how did you— what—" he whipped his head to the side, puzzlement shoved aside as his eyes landed on his friend's unconscious form. He snapped back to Derek, eyes desperate. "Help me," he choked. "I can't g-get him up the ladder."

The gruff alpha quizzically looked his bedraggled pack mate up and down, eyes narrowing as he realized.

"You _idiot!"_ He barked, a strange combination of anger and admiration filling his veins. He yanked Scott to his feet, nostrils flaring. "You've been leeching his pain the whole time?!"

Scott offered a weak, sheepish smile in response, wobbling slightly as he tried to retain his balance on his feet. Derek huffed, rolling his eyes. That was so very _McCall,_ to nearly kill himself all for the comfort level of some spastic friend.

"No wonder you're dead on your feet," he muttered, bending down and slipping his hands underneath Stiles, effortlessly swinging the lanky teen over his back with the detached, steady approach of a medical response member. He was taller than Scott, stronger and not weighted down by the physical and emotional strain of the past couple hours. He stepped in front of the ladder, placing one beaten-up black Doc Marten on the first rung before throwing a glance over his shoulder.

"Are you okay to follow me up?" He asked curtly, eyeing the teen's unsteady knees.

"Yeah," Scott responded, nodding tiredly but urgently. "Yeah… Just go. Go."

And so Derek went up, climbing towards the square of night sky as swiftly as he could without jolting the figure draped over his back. The younger alpha followed in suit, eyes glued to the slack face that dangled down in front of him. A bead of fresh blood seeped out between Stiles's upper teeth, dripping down over his lip and splatting on Scott's nose. The werewolf was too focused on dragging his aching body up the iron rungs to wipe it away. He was running on pure adrenaline now, each sluggish heartbeat emanating from the form ahead of him pushing him onwards. He could taste the fresh air on his parched tongue now. _They were almost there…_

With a small grunt, Derek hoisted himself out of the shaft, pacing a few feet away from the entrance before crouching down, gently easing the human off his shoulders and onto the ground. He laid him out flat on his back, watching as the human's head rolled lifelessly to the side. Derek stared, perplexed by the tremors in his chest as he observed the prone form before him. Now that they were outside, he could see that Stiles was covered head to toe in grey ash, his face bloodless and white except for a small trickle of crimson that painted his bottom lip like a dab of raspberry syrup. He was hardly breathing, lips tinged blue.

And there was the funny loopy thing again. The kid looked so… _Vulnerable._ Derek's eyebrows twitched, betraying his startlement. Stiles was supposed to be annoying— a spaz. A jumpy, babbling waste of space that carried around a baseball bat and stupidly jumped into every dangerous situation the pack got themselves into. He wasn't supposed to be unconscious and hardly breathing, bleeding out and… _Dying?_

Before he even knew what he was doing, Derek pressed his palms against the human's cheeks, eyes frantically searching for some sign of injury.

"What happened to him?" He demanded sharply, shooting an accusatory gaze to Scott, who was finally clawing his way out onto the damp grass, wheezing and trembling slightly. The younger werewolf crawled over to his side, collapsing onto his stomach as he pressed his face into the earth, sucking in gulps of air like the oxygen was the sweetest thing he's ever tasted.

"Part of the c-ceiling… Caved in on us," he panted, pushing his head up to wearily meet Derek's gaze. He motioned for him to lift up Stiles's shirt, too exhausted to crawl to his knees and do it himself. "Chunk of earth… fell on his ribs."

Derek quickly grabbed the bottom of Stiles's shirt and hoodie and lifted it up, consternation ticking up another notch as he spied what lay beneath the fabric. The teen's torso was a sickening painting of deep purples and sallow yellows, staining the length of milky skin stretching over the right side of his ribcage. The last three bones didn't look right, bent inwards beneath tiny red pinpricks peppering the bruised flesh. Scott stole a glance, his breath catching. It looked much worse.

"He needs to get to a hospital," Derek stated, carefully controlling his voice and expression. He started losening the cord at the top of the sweatshirt, yanking the fabric down around the human's neck. "Scott, call for help," He ordered, briefly ripping his eyes away from Stiles to shoot the other werewolf a serious look.

Scott's hand immediately flew to his back pocket, frantically fishing out the phone that had been useless underground. His stomach summersaulted as he switched it on and the screen lit up with a lineup of notifications:

_Mom: Missed Call (9)_

_Allison: Missed Call (2)_

_Allison: Hey where are you? Are you and your mom ok? Call me._

_Isaac: Hey u ok? that was a big one._

_Isaac: Missed Call (1)_

_Mr. Stilinski: Missed Call (3)_

In all the chaos, he had almost forgotten about the earthquake. His chest squeezed painfully at the thought of his mom, worried sick as he didn't pick up after nine calls. Of the Sheriff, calling him after Stiles failed to pick up his own phone. _Were they okay? Was their house okay? Allison's?_ But he shoved all concerns to the back of his mind as he hit the three numbers he had dialed way too often the past year, troubled eyes flickering anxiously over to where Derek was tipping back Stiles's head, exposing his neck to the air. Then he stiffened, grip tightening on his phone as the line cut and the busy signal hit his ears.

_Beeeep Be-beep Beeeep Be—_

"No, no, no!" He muttered, furiously pressing the buttons on his phone. "The line's busy!"

"You dialed _nine-one-one?"_ Derek demanded incredulously, eyes flicking up and down Scott as if he were looking at something mildly unappetizing. "Of course it's busy!" He barked, the skin over the bridge of his nose crinkling. "There was an earthquake! Scott, your mom's a nurse! Call your _mom!"_

Scott backpedaled, cursing under his breath. _Of course!_ Fingers fumbling, he quickly selected her number and anxiously held the phone up to his ear. She picked up on the first ring.

_"Scott!_ Oh, thank God_—_ Scott, honey, are you _okay?_ Please tell me you're okay?"

Scott could have cried as her shrill, panicked voice hit his ears. The volume pinched his eardrum, but he welcomed it like a warm embrace on a chilly evening.

"Mom! Mom I'm okay, just—"

"Where have you _been?!"_ She cried, a note of anger infiltrating her tone. Now that the initial concern was addressed and her only son was indeed okay, the motherly wrath flowed out. "There was an eight-point-five magnitude earthquake and you didn't pick up your—"

"Mom!" Scott interrupted harshly, stealing another glance over his shoulder at the pair by his side. Derek was crouched over Stiles, one hand marked by black, inky lines, the other tapping at his friend's cheeks. The teen paused, leveled by a small bead of surprise. Stiles always jumped into action whenever Derek was in trouble, but he had always wondered if Derek would reciprocate the concern should Stiles ever be in danger.

Now he knew.

"Mom," he repeated, softer, but shakily. "Stiles is hurt, his ribs, they're— I think they're broken, he was coughing up blood, he's not— W-we need your _help!"_ He pleaded, mentally cursing himself for how fast and furious the scattered words tumbled from his mouth on their own accord.

"Okay, Scott, honey, slow down…"

Melissa had her nurse voice on now, carefully controlled to a register of calm tactility. Scott made a mental note to kiss her later.

"Is he conscious?" She asked, tone steady and articulate.

"No, he passed out— I-I don't know," He stammered, biting his lip. "Twenty minutes ago? He isn't waking up."

"Okay, is he breathing?"

"Y-yes, but barely. Mom, his lips are turning blue," He bit out, voice cracking as it jumped an octave higher. Derek turned to him briefly, eyes steely and unreadable. "I called nine-one-one but the line is busy, I—"

"I know, the west wing of the hospital collapsed," She cut in. "All our ambulances are held up, there's emergencies and damages being called in from all over the city." Scott listened as she paused, taking in a deep breath. "Scott, where are you?"

"We're in the woods by interstate ninety," He choked out, feeling utterly hopeless. The words hung in the air, bearing down on them with the reality they knew all too well. The hospital was miles away. They had no car, no ambulance. Stiles needed help now, and he wasn't going to get it. There was a short pause on the other end of the line.

"Interstate ninety?" She asked sharply. Hesitantly.

"Yes," Scott groaned, turning towards the road a couple dozen meters to his right. "We were looking for something. Near the junction sign for the Silverlight exit…" He trailed off, furiously digging his nails into the soft dirt beneath his feet. This wasn't _fair._

"Scott," Melissa started, voice trembling with a new sense of hope. "I'm _on_ the interstate!"

The two werewolves cocked their heads up at the sound of her exclamation, exchanging looks of disbelief.

"W-what?" Scott stated brokenly, unwilling to let it be truth just yet. "How—?"

"I left the hospital ten minutes ago," Melissa explained urgently. "I was coming home to look for you. You weren't answering your phone, I thought—" A pause. The sound of the highway rattled in the background. "Nevermind. I'm coming, I can see the exit sign. Just hold on!"

Scott nearly dropped his phone with relief. A minute later, a strange, hysterical laughter bubbled up from his throat as the lights from his mom's black Toyota rolled into view at the edge of the clearing. He shakily scrambled to his feet, using Derek's shoulder as leverage to push himself up as the car screeched to a halt in front of them, the tires kicking up fallen leaves around them.

"Mom!"

"Scott!"

Melissa killed the engine and leapt from the driver's seat, not even bothering to shut the door behind her as she ran to him, signature tousled curls bouncing wildly behind her. She was wearing her lavender scrubs today, the ones dotted with little blue flowers. They were Scott's favorite.

"Scott, what on _earth—!?"_ She cried as she wrapped him up in a death-grip hug, quickly pushing him back to look him over. She frowned as she examined his weary, soiled appearance, nose wrinkling in disapproval. "You're _filthy!"_ She exclaimed, subconsciously using her thumb to wipe away some of the dirt from his cheek, as if that would help.

"Mom, later!" Scott pleaded urgently, gripping her shoulders as he motioned to Derek and Stiles. Melissa glanced over, seemingly noticing the pair for the first time.

"Right," she breathed, hurrying over to crouch down beside the rugged alpha. She seemed perplexed, if not a little nervous that Derek was there, but she didn't say anything as he stepped back, giving her space to examine the unconscious figure on the grass. The wrinkles on her forehead deepened as she lifted up Stiles's shirt, spotting the visage of dark stains underneath.

"Scott, get my purse," She stated curtly, the authoritative head nurse voice wielding her tone. Scott doggedly bolted to the car as she pressed two digits to Stiles's jugular, lips thinning as she felt the weak pulse against her fingertips.

"Derek, I need you to hold his head," She commanded, gently wiping the blood from the teen's lips. The werewolf quickly stepped forward, crouching down in front of her to place his hands on either side of the human's temples.

"Good, just like that. But I need you to hold him up on your lap and keep him still, okay?"

Melissa looked up, courageously meeting the hardened emerald eyes with a firm gaze. She hadn't met Derek too many times, but she preferred to keep it that way, considering that every time she saw him, he was covered in blood. She had heard plenty about him, and none of it made her feel better about the fact that her only son insisted on spending so much time with him— His family's tragic fire. His arrest for alleged murder last year. The way Scott described him as "a big, brooding jerk." The way Stiles described him as "a big, brooding softie." But as they locked gazes, she relaxed a bit, realizing which one of the boys was right.

Derek hesitated at first, but then obediently obliged and gently scooted his knees underneath Stiles's head, palms holding him upright. He kept stealing glances at Melissa's eyes, marveling in how they looked just like Scott's. He hadn't met Melissa too many times, but he respected her. Admired her strength, but also her undying love for Scott and his friends, even throughout the new supernatural world they fought in. He could smell her fear. She was scared of him, just like everyone else he came into contact with.

"Is he going to be okay?" He asked. For the first time, he wished his voice wasn't so damn gruff and intimidating. Melissa kept her eyes down as she scooted Stiles's sweatshirt higher up, exposing the entirety of his long torso.

"Stiles has been Scott's other half since kindergarten," She responded grimly, rolling up her sleeves. She looked up at him, her gaze intense and shadowed with fear. "I sure hope so."

"Here, I got it!"

Scott came staggering back, his mother's purse swinging from his hand. Melissa quickly grabbed it, turning it upside down as she unceremoniously dumped the contents onto the damp soil. She dropped the leather, fingers flying over the objects —lipstick, a notebook, wallet, wet wipes, keys, a picture of Scott as a baby— in pursuit for a certain ticket to save her son's best friend.

Stiles suddenly started twitching in Derek's grasp, his short staccato breaths making his chest spasm with tiny tremors. He wasn't taking in any air. Derek and Scott exchanged alarmed looks.

"Scott!" Derek barked, eyes wide as he stared down at the convulsing form in his arms.

_"Mom!"_ Scott cried urgently, staring in horror as more blood dribbled from his best friend's mouth.

"Got it!"

Melissa grabbed a black ballpoint pen and held it up, moonlight glinting off the hard plastic as if it were a diamond.

"Mom, what—?"

"Scott, open the wet wipes. It's not hydrogen peroxide, but they'll have to do," she muttered, ignoring her son's confusion as she ripped the casing from the pen and shook out the spring. Scott quickly handed her the damp cloth, which she promptly used to swipe up and down the plastic tube in her hands before gently wiping the dirt from a section of skin below Stiles's breastbone. The younger alpha gaped in utter confusion, but Derek observed Melissa's actions in startled awe, looking up at her in surprise.

"A tracheotomy?" He asked hesitantly, eyebrows shooting up. Melissa shook her head, gripping the pen tightly as she steadied it above Stiles's flesh.

"No, honey, that goes in the windpipe. He needs it in his chest, a thoracostomy," she stated grimly, hand latching out to grab Stiles's hand. It was ice cold, fingers stained a pale purple. The human's eyes were racing beneath his eyelids, horrible choking sounds sputtering from his throat as blood gargled in his throat.

"Scott, I need you to make an incision there, _now!"_ She demanded, voice ringing out across the clearing in urgency. But Scott couldn't move, couldn't bring himself to unsheath a claw. He was still getting over what with mother had said, about putting the pen in his friend's chest. Still getting over the fact that hit friend was sprawled out before him, blood dribbling down his chin like a horror film.

"SCOTT!" Derek roared, eyes flashing red. Stiles continued to spasm in his grip, tremors growing weaker.

"Scott, I need it NOW!" Melissa screamed at him, still poised over Stiles with the pen tube in her grip, ready to swing downwards. Scott trembled, wincing as he flicked his fingers, willing himself to shift, but he was too overwhelmed, his terror and trepidation too great.

He couldn't do it.

There was a curt snarl, and a flash of movement. A small line of red marked Stiles's chest as Derek swung an arm out and slashed the skin, making a small opening. And then there was a horrid squelching sound as Melissa swung the pen down into the incision, jamming the hollow tube into the chest cavity. Stiles jerked, and for a few terrifying seconds he lay stiff in Derek's lap, no breath brushing past his lips as blood spurted down the tube and onto the grass. The silence was deafening.

"Mom—" Scott choked, a broken, terrified whisper.

"Hold on," Melissa breathed, determined and terrified, knuckles white around the pen. "Just _hold_ on…"

More crimson fluid streamed down the tube, the pattering sound it made against the earth like jackhammers against the wolves' eardrums. And then—

Stiles sucked in a slow, shuddering breath, the smallest hint of color seeping back into his lips before he fell slack, head lolling against Derek's palm. Scott collapsed backwards onto the grass, palms digging into the dirt as he doubled over, suddenly out of breath himself. Melissa let out a shaky laugh as the fluid continued to drain, the human's breathing growing deeper with every inhale.

"That's it, sweetie," she encouraged warmly, using a hand to brush the hair back from Stiles's forehead. "That's it, breathe."

Derek stared, slightly fascinated as he observed the face below him, which was already looking less pale.

"Is he…?" he started, hesitantly looking to Melissa.

"He's stable for now," she said, brushing the back of her hand across her cheek. "His blood was pooling in his lung, so he wasn't getting enough oxygen to his brain. One of his broken ribs must have punctured it."

"He threw up a little while ago," Scott provided shakily as he straightened up, rolling over onto his hands and knees. "It must have happened then."

"Yep, that would do it," Melissa murmured sardonically, wincing in sympathy. She turned to Scott, quirking her eyebrow. "Now, are you going to tell me where the _hell_ you two were then? Or will we be having that talk tomorrow?"

"Mom, tomorrow, please," Scott groaned, flinging an arm across his forehead. "But if you really need to know, we were… In there," he muttered, pointing to the weathered trap door several feet behind them. Melissa glanced backwards, eyebrows knitting together as she noticed the grungy trap door.

"I don't even want to know," She sighed, slowly shaking her head. "Now if the two of you want to _carefully_ carry him to the car, I'll drive you to the hospital."


	6. Chapter 6

"Nancy? This is Melissa. I've got a seventeen year old with a punctured lung— Yes, one of Scott's friends. We're on our way now, I need a response team with a stretcher and oxygen ready to go at the main entrance— Yes. Nancy, thank you. I don't care what needs to arranged, this kid is like a son to me."

Scott stared out the window as they drove down the interstate, blinking against the bright lights that stung his eyes through the surrounding darkness of the evening. He had counted eleven different fires so far, their neon orange flames licking away at buildings, homes, and telephone polls as firefighters struggled to put them out, terrified civilians watching wide-eyed from afar. Police cars and ambulances lay scattered about seemingly on every corner, emergency lights flashing like red and blue strobes that painted the huge cracks in the cement with an eerie purple glow. The smell of fear and grief tainted the air.

He closed his eyes, subconsciously curling his fingers in the hair of the head on his lap. Stiles was stretched out next to him in the backseat, still unconscious but breathing much easier. Melissa's outer scrub was bundled up over the pen to help staunch the bleeding until he was transferred to the OR. She was on the phone with the other head nurse now, knuckles white against the steering wheel as she barked into the speaker. Derek sat next to her in the passenger's spot, stone-still and quiet. He was a bit too tall for the seat, shoulders hunched slightly and knees bent awkwardly, but he hadn't made any attempt to readjust the position. If Scott didn't know him, he would say it was because he was too shy.

There was a faint movement on his lap. Scott looked down as Stiles stirred slightly in his arms, his breathing pattern interrupted by a soft inhale.

"Stiles?"

At the sound of his tentative utterance, Derek craned his head around, gaze flickering curiously to the figure in his arms. Melissa glanced in the rear view mirror, eying her son cautiously.

"Mm…" Stiles mewled softly, faint crinkles spilling across his brow. His lips pried open the smallest crack, dry, tacky flakes of skin unsticking from each other as he swallowed weakly, his pale neck flexing against Scott's lap.

"Hey, buddy… You with me?" The alpha asked hesitantly— softly, as if he were afraid his friend would slip away again if he used too much volume. Stiles turned his head up towards his voice, but kept his eyes closed.

"Sc'tt?" Stiles croaked, voice raw and almost inaudible. He panted a bit. "We still… Underground?"

"No," Scott replied, shaking his head softly. "No, Stiles, we made it out."

A small smile graced the human's lips, trembling above his chin before falling away again with a wince. Scott made to grab his hand with the intention of taking some of his pain, but was stopped by an abrupt growl from the front seat. He glanced up wearily, where he was immediately pinned down by Derek's death-glare.

"Don't even think about it, Scott." He warned, voice low and dangerous as he cocked an eyebrow. "Take any more and _both_ of you will need a hospital."

Stiles shifted his head over at the sound of the threat, blearily prying his eyes open in confusion. His smile returned as his gaze landed on the blurry outline of the rugged alpha, who was looking at him with signature scowl number three. The expression flickered as he noticed the blood staining Stiles's upper teeth.

"Eeyy… Sourwolf," Stiles slurred. He clumsily reached out a hand as if he intended to pat Derek's arm, but it ended up flopping pathetically to the floor of the car instead. The werewolf eyed the action hesitantly, eyebrows twitching as the human's hand fell on Scott's shoe with a small slap.

"Stiles, honey?" Melissa spoke up, glancing back in the rear-view mirror again. She had her nurse voice on again. "I need you to try and save your breath, okay? You've punctured a lung, so it might be harder to breathe if you keep talking. Try not to speak."

"Like that'll ever happen," Derek muttered quietly, impassively eying the human in question. Scott shot him a withering look.

"Mel… Mama McCall?" Stiles questioned weakly, blinking heavily. He seemed to only just realize that he was in a moving car. "Why'm I… Scott?" He tried again, an edge of fear worming into his cracked question. The werewolf ran his hand through the teen's hair soothingly.

"Hey, you're okay," He reassured. "My mom was here to patch you up. She did a… A, uh..." Scott trailed off, eyebrows knitting together as he looked to Derek for help. The older alpha gave him a deadpan look, struggling not to roll his eyes at the teen's comically confused expression.

"A thoracostomy," He provided flatly.

"Yeah… A thora… That," Scott finished weakly, eyebrows more twisted than ever. Derek glanced at Melissa, who was biting down a small smile, shaking her head. He smirked a bit as he exchanged a glance with her.

"I… I had a p-pen in me?" Stiles rasped, voice feeble and confused like a nervous toddler. He blinked a few times, gaze going unfocused as he sleepily closed his eyes.

"Yeah… Still do, actually."

"Sick."

Scott chuckled softly, letting his head fall back against the headrest. Despite all the chaos of the past few hours, hearing his friend's voice, sarcastic and familiar despite his hoarse tone, suddenly made all of it bearable. He closed his eyes, allowing himself a moment of rest as the car lurched, taking a sharp left turn into the hospital's main entrance.

"Scott," his mom stated, eying him concernedly in the rear-view mirror. "We're here. They're going to take him from you, okay? He'll go straight to surgery."

The werewolf jerked his head forward, blinking away his dizziness as he looked down. Stiles had fallen slack again, looking as if he had simply fallen asleep contentedly in his lap.

"Stiles?" Scott started, heart fluttering a little in concern. "Mom, he passed out!"

"Scott, it's okay," she said gently, meeting his worried eyes in the mirror. "His body needs to heal. Do you trust me? He'll be okay."

The werewolf hesitated before nodding slowly, adjusting his hold on the scrubs over his friend's injury, fingers feeling the pen's form beneath the fabric.

The car screeched to a halt outside the main lobby, where three paramedics immediately leapt into action, opening the car door and easing Stiles off of Scott's lap and onto a stretcher. Scott dazedly stumbled out onto the cement after them, feeling helpless as the team strapped on an oxygen mask and stuck various IVs into the crook of his friend's arm, all while barking medical jargon gibberish. His eyes flickered to the other end of the building, heart sinking as he took in the crumbled mess of insulation and steel framing that used to be the west wing. Canines and medical personnel were scouring amongst the wreckage, shining flashlights and calling out into small openings in the rubble. Ambulances and stood by like loyal guard dogs, some being loaded with bloodied victims, others with closed doors, unmoving bodies clad in white sheets inside.

The world was a blur as he shakily staggered after Derek and his mom into the lobby, which was chaotic and crowded, bright with fluorescent lighting and packed with people crying and exchanging hushed whispers into their cellphones. Then his mom was suddenly in his line of vision, gripping his shoulders and staring into his eyes as he craned his neck, getting a final glimpse of his friend as the nurses hurried him around a corner to the operating room.

"—re you listening?"

His mom was speaking to him, enunciating slowly and looking worried as she snapped her fingers in front of his eyes. He blinked, feeling dazed. The corners of her eyes were pinched in concern, her lips a thin line. She looked beautiful, even when anxious, but Scott didn't get to tell her because without warning his eyes decided to slip closed and he slumped into her arms, energy finally puttering out.

"Whoa, easy there kiddo," she exclaimed, slightly alarmed as she struggled to support him by the elbow. Then there were another pair of hands underneath his armpits, hoisting him upright as he blearily opened his eyes and met her worried maternal expression number one, feeling dizzy and a bit ill.

"For God's sake, sit down before you _fall_ down," a low voice growled above his ear, sounding annoyed and familiar. Derek. Derek was holding him. _Oh._

Scott straightened out his feet, wobbling a bit as he let the older alpha guide him over to a chair and plop him down, Melissa following at their heels. She crouched down, pressing cool hands against his cheek and forehead as she studied him, eyes big and brown and concerned. Scott figured another nurse must have seen his swoon (how _embarrassing_), because one came over and shoved a dixie cup of water into his hand, smiling sympathetically at him. Melissa nodded her thanks as he greedily gulped the liquid down, emptying it in a few blessedly cold swigs.

"Listen, Scott. Stiles is going to be just fine, okay? You need to take it easy," she said, wielding that classic maternal tone that was somehow both gentle and firm. "I don't know what kind of… _Shenanigans_ you boys got yourselves into, but from what I understand, you just need some time to heal?" She stated quietly, voice creeping up in question at the end as she glanced at Derek, who nodded. "Okay, good. I'll stay here and keep an eye on Stiles. Technically, I was never off the clock," she muttered, eyes flickering to her watch. "I suggest you go home and get some rest, but knowing _you_…"

"I'm staying here," Scott provided firmly, meeting her eyes with a half-lidded gaze. Melissa sighed, nodding slowly.

"That's what I thought," She murmured softly, glancing at her watch again. She bit her lip, hesitant to leave her son alone. "I gotta go, but... Maybe… Uh, Derek," she stated hesitantly, glancing nervously at the tall werewolf by her side. "Are you…?"

Derek stepped forward, silently sitting down in the empty seat next to Scott.

"I'll stay," He stated, looking up at her without the slightest indication of a scowl. Melissa's gaze softened, feeling a small pang of guilt for ever misjudging him. He was no mean brute. She could see it in his eyes.

"Thank you, honey." She said, nodding appreciatively. Scott side-glanced cautiously at Derek, half expecting him to pop fangs and growl his opposition to the pet name, but to his surprise the alpha merely respectfully returned the nod. Melissa made to walk away, but Scott shot his hand out, grabbing her by the wrist.

"Mom," he started, gaping silently as he searched for the right words. "Mom, you _saved_ him," He choked out softly. She stared at him, wide-eyed and startled. "You… You were awesome." He finished, pulling her forward into a hug. Melissa sighed again, a warm, embarrassed smile gracing her lips as she wrapped her arms around him, holding him like he was the most precious thing in the world. Derek observed quietly from his chair, something small and painful nipping beneath his sternum.

"Get some rest, Scott," she breathed, planting a soft kiss on the top of his head. Then she turned around and swiftly paced down the hall, the dark, wild curls in her ponytail swinging like a pendulum behind her.

Scott slumped down in his chair, puffing out his cheeks as he blew out a long exhale. He wearily glanced around, noticing how most of the other patients in the room were staring at him, some whispering to each other as they eyed him up and down, eyebrows furrowed in either confusion or fear, he couldn't tell. He didn't blame them. It must have been quite a scene, to see him practically faint into his mother's arms, covered head to toe in grey ash with dried blood smeared on his face, a ruggedly handsome, intimidating older guy scowling at their side. He allowed himself a short, breathy chuckle, letting his head fall back against the seat. _What even was his life?_

Scott closed his eyes, listening to the hushed sounds of the waiting room. Fingers nervously drumming against kneecaps. The soft scratch of pens on clipboarded paperwork. Quiet clicks of keypads on cellphones, pushed by anxious texters. Derek was silent by his side the entire time, unmoving and emotionally constipated, as always. After a while, Scott gave up and asked the question he'd meant to ask a while ago.

"How'd… How'd you know?" He inquired quietly. He kept his eyes closed, awaiting the werewolf's answer. He was sure Derek was side-glancing him.

"Know what?"

"Where to find us."

"I heard your howl… It was kind of hard to miss."

"Mm."

Scott mused, thinking back to when he was sprawled over Stiles at the bottom of ladder and let out the heart-wrenching wail. It was probably no less than an hour ago, but it seemed like an eternity. He had been prepared to die at the bottom of that shaft, but nothing would ever compare to the grief he felt thinking —_knowing_— that Stiles wasn't going to make it.

"What were you doing down there?"

Scott bit his lip, feeling defeated.

"We were trying to find the Bestiary. But Kate... It wasn't down there. She moved everything out."

Beside him, Derek sighed. A faint tang of anger drifted off him.

"You should tell me when you're about to do something that stupid," he bit out quietly. "Especially if you're gonna drag Stiles with you. He's _human,_ Scott."

Scott swallowed guiltily. He knew that. He blamed himself for his friend's current condition, but he had never been able to convince Stiles to sit on the sidelines, no matter how dangerous the pack's mission was. Maybe it was his relief, or maybe his exhaustion was making him foolishly brave, but he decided to respond with a statement.

"You care about him."

Scott heard Derek shift next to him, the alpha's jeans and cotton thermal rubbing against the scratchy polyester of the seat. A pause.

"Scott…" The werewolf growled, seemingly about to pose a threat, but instead he trailed off, unable to muster anything. A smile smile tugged at Scott's lip.

"You act like you're staying as a favor to my mom," he muttered, smile deepening. "Remember when Lydia was in the hospital, after Peter bit her? She was here for three days, and you never came to see her. When Allison's mom tried to kill me with wolfsbane vapor, you didn't stay. Even Isaac, when he was electrocuted… You never visited." He murmured softly, still keeping his eyes closed. "But Stiles… I've never seen you look like that."

Derek stiffened by his side. Scott imagined the alpha was glaring at him with everything he had, nostrils flared and fighting the urge to wolf out and beat him to a pulp right there in the waiting room. Good thing there were people around.

"Like what," the werewolf spat defensively, more of a statement than a question. Scott guessed it was because he already knew the answer. He courageously cracked an eye open, stealing a side-glance at the alpha, who was predictably glaring furiously at him, the only difference was that there was a hint of fear flickering in his steely gaze. Scott closed his eyes again, suddenly much less afraid of his old mentor.

"Like you _cared."_

A few terrifyingly quiet moments ticked by. Scott wondered if Derek really would pop fangs and throw him to floor, cutting him into a thousand bloody pieces in front of everybody, but then there was a long, defeated exhale beside him, and more rustling as Derek shifted his position again, presumably to cross his arms.

"Go to sleep, Scott."

* * *

><p>John paced nervously in his office, shoes squeaking against the worn hardwood flooring by his desk.<p>

He had last heard from Stiles earlier that evening, when he had texted him saying that he would be spending the evening studying at Scott's. Lately, John had grown suspicious whenever Stiles used the 'studying' excuse, because school seemed frivolous nowadays, especially to 'the pack.' More often than not, his son was actually sneaking out and getting into some supernatural bullshit that often left him coming home bruised and battered, dirtied baseball bat in hand.

But when the earthquake had finally shuddered to a stop, he had immediately dived for his cell phone, hoping that just this once Stiles really was studying at Scott's, safe (if not a bit rattled) in the McCall's still-standing home. The line had rang once. Twice. Five times.

_"__Hey, you've reached Stiles! Leave a message and I'll get back to you, unless you're Scott and you want to whine about wooing Allison, in which case find another hopelessly single dude, buddy."_

_John would have laughed at his son's wry message if a major earthquake hadn't just rattled the walls of his office like it weighed nothing. He paced nervously, glancing up as the police line rang from the corner of the room, already the first call in a long line of emergencies that would start to pour in throughout the evening, undoubtedly ceaseless until dawn. He heard Parrish pick it up from the other room._

_"__Beacon Hills police department, what's your emergency?"_

_He hit redial, lips thinning as he got his son's message recording again. A dozen bad scenarios flashed through his mind— what if Stiles was hurt? Unconscious? What if the McCall's house collapsed? What if the boys weren't even at Scott's house, instead off fighting some were-whatever? He sighed, running a hand through his hair. No, Stiles probably just forgot to charge his phone. It probably died, and that's why he wasn't answering. _

_The Sheriff glanced at the desk line as the telephone rang again, the shrill noise driving a mallet into his chest. No... Stiles would have called him immediately to make sure he was okay. The kid always called to make sure he was okay— After late-night searches on the latest case, during crazy missions to track down dangerous alphas, even sometimes from school to make sure he was eating a healthy lunch— so why wasn't he calling now?_

_He glanced through the glass door of his office. Tom, the other deputy on duty picked up the second line. Parrish was scribbling notes on a yellow legal pad, calmly advising orders into the speaker as he motioned for Lena to send an ambulance to the address he'd written down. In another minute the phone was likely to ring again, and he would need to answer it, taking responsibility as the town Sheriff._

_But right now, his responsibility was being a father._

_He selected Scott's number and hit dial. The line rang. It rang again. Two more times._

_"__Hi, it's Scott. Please leave a message and I'll get back to you soon as I can. Thanks."_

_John slowly lowered the phone from his ear, staring blankly at the screen as he dazedly ended the call. He called again— message box. Concern breaching an all-time high, he dialed the one woman he knew he could confide in, and hopefully held an answer. She picked up halfway through the first ring._

_"__John?"_

_"__Melissa," he breathed, relieved to hear her voice. At least she was safe._

_"__Are you alright?" She asked quickly, a small waver in her voice. "Is Stiles okay?"_

_"__I was hoping you could tell me that," He replied grimly. "I'm okay, but I can't get a hold of Stiles or Scott. Are you home with them?"_

_A pause. He held his breath, knowing what the silence meant. In the background he could hear other voices, panicked shouts and medical orders._

_"__No," she started slowly. Hesitantly. "I'm at the hospital. I can't get a hold of Scott, either… He told me he was studying at _your_ place."_

_The Sherriff closed his eyes, pursing his lips as he let out a heavy sigh. He heard Melissa do the same on the other end of the line. He hated when his suspicions were right._

_"__Jesus," He muttered, rubbing his thumb across the wrinkles on his forehead, as if the single motion could iron out all the uncertainty and heartache built up over the past few years. _

_"__I called your house line," Melissa quipped hurriedly. "There was no answer. Got the answering machine at my house, too."_

_The phone on his desk rang, harshly interrupting the silence. He glared at it wearily before sighing again, begrudgingly turning away from it. _

_"__Shoot. I gotta go, but let me know if you get a hold of either one of them? I'll keep trying if I get a chance. God knows what they're up to now."_

_"__Of course. I need to get back too… Can't this town ever catch a break?" She muttered, an edge of bitterness to her voice. _

_John glanced at the wall behind him, which was covered in scores of graphic pictures, newspaper clippings, and too many red lines, which were pinned across the board in a tangled spiderweb of crisscrossing lines. He knew that many, if not all of them really pointed to the supernatural, but that wasn't exactly something he could illustrate in a public office. For now, he would just have to put the pieces together under the radar._

_"__I know," he murmured. "Thanks, Mel."_

_"__You too, John." A pause before she added, "Don't worry, our kids are tough. I'll give you a call." _

_The line disconnected. John strode over to his desk, bracing himself as he picked up the office phone._

_"__Beacon Hills Police department, Sheriff Stilinksi speaking."_

John wearily sat down in his office chair, mentally noting how stiff it was, seldom used because he was usually pacing.

It had been three hours since the exchange with Melissa. Six hours since he last had contact with his son. It was nearing 10:30pm, and John still hadn't heard from any of them. Each minute that ticked by only made the unease in his gut intensify, which had weighed uncomfortably on his shoulders throughout the drive from emergency to emergency across town as he watched dozens of people be loaded onto stretchers and thrown in the back of ambulances.

People who weren't his son.

Parrish had insisted that he return to the office for a bit and catch a quick break or a cup of coffee. 'Haggard' was the word he had used.

_"You look haggard, Sheriff. Let me take over for a bit, you'll be in better shape after a little sit-down… I'm sure you'll hear from Stiles soon."_

John sighed, burying his weathered face into his hands. It was nice like this, in the leathery folds of his palms. There was no chaos or death. He couldn't see the monsters lurking in the outside world, and with his eyes closed like this, he could pretend that they didn't even exist.

A faint buzzing in his pocket made him jerk up, hand immediately flying to his pocket. He clumsily fished out his cell phone, leaping out of his chair to resume pacing when he saw that it was Melissa. His phone flipped open with a loud snap as he brought it to his ear, heart suddenly pounding.

"Melissa?"

"John, hi," She breathed. She had her nurse voice on for some reason, the one she used when she needed to keep someone calm. The unease in his gut amplified.

"Did you get a hold of the boys?" He asked quickly, holding his breath.

"Yes, yes both of them are here. We're at the hospital," she replied, tone wavering as a touch of nervousness wormed in.

"Hospital," John stated hesitantly. "Why are you at the hospital? Is Stiles—"

"John, Stiles is okay," she cut in quickly. "He's in surgery right now with a few broken ribs and a punctured lung. We're still running some tests, but he should be just fine."

His hands curled around the edge of his desk as he leaned against it, suddenly feeling unsteady.

"Wh… W-what happened? Where did you find them?" He demanded brokenly, biting his lip after the outburst.

"I don't know," she responded gently. "Scott called me, they were in the woods. I guess beforehand they were in some sort of underground hideout, but we can worry about the logistics later."

The sheriff sighed. _That's it._ After all of this was sorted out, he was boarding up the windows to Stiles's room.

"Is Scott okay?" He questioned softly.

"Yes, Scott's fine. He's in the waiting room with Derek Hale."

John stiffened, snapping his head up.

"Derek _Hale?"_ He repeated, practically spitting the name out. "Melissa, he's—"

"I know," she cut in. "Believe me, I was worried too, but he's okay, John. Trust me, I think… I think he's a good guy," she said softly, taking a breath as if she couldn't believe she had actually admitted it. "He helped save your son."

There was a pause as John absently drummed his fingers over the desk, trying to wrap his head around her words. There was no way that Derek Hale— the brooding, aggressive brute who had been acquitted for murder just last year— could be a 'good guy.' But if _Melissa_ thought so, then maybe… Maybe it was true.

"Alright, I'm on my way," he announced, moving over to his chair to grab his coat. "Thanks for letting me know."

"Of course, John. Come in from the east entrance, the west entrance is blocked off. It collapsed during the quake."

"I know, we got a call a couple hours ago," he replied grimly, grabbing his keys from the white coffee mug by his computer. "I'll see you soon."

"John—" She cut in quickly, making him pause. "Stiles is going to be just _fine."_

Despite everything, a small smile graced his lips.

"Thanks, Mel."


	7. Chapter 7

Derek sat for a long time in the waiting room, arms folded and face set to default scowl.

He had counted sixteen ambulances so far that had screeched to a halt outside the glass double-doors, lights flashing obnoxiously against the while walls as bloodied people on stretchers were unloaded onto the sidewalk before frenzied nurses in cheery scrubs quickly wheeled them away. He watched as figures came and went through the lobby, damp tissues clutched in white fists as they stood from their chairs and were escorted down the hall to injured loved ones, only for their seats to be replaced by a new warm body the next minute. The whole time he sat in silence, silently observing the aftermath of the destruction as heavy, confusing thoughts clouded his mind.

There was a sudden weight on his shoulder. He glanced down, scowl deepening. Scott had shifted in his sleep, and his head had fallen onto his sleeve with a soft thud. Derek stiffened, side-eying the younger werewolf with nostrils flared, ready to violently jerk his shoulder and wake him, but something stopped him. Instead, he just stared at the small trail of drool that was seeping out over the edge of the teen's lip. The way his cheek was squished against the soft fabric of his henley, knocked out cold from trying to alleviate his friend's discomfort. Derek sighed, turning away. He couldn't do it. Peter was right— he really _was_ a softie.

He fidgeted slightly in his seat, shiftily glancing around at the other people in the room. A middle-aged woman with greying hair was smiling at him from the front desk, eying him warmly as if he were some goody-two-shoes human of the year who had let his younger brother use him as a pillow. He glared at her, jerking his gaze to the floor. He didn't want to be seen like this. He was an _alpha,_ dammit.

Thus, it was certainly not his proudest moment when Sheriff Stilinski walked through the doors ten minutes later, looking flustered and worried before catching sight of him with Scott slumped against his side like a napping puppy. He halted mid-stride, eyebrows rapidly scrunching together before shooting to the ceiling.

_Great._

Derek groaned inwardly as the man approached him, watching as he wove around chairs and busied nurses without ever unlocking his befuddled gaze from the pair of them. John's eyebrows seemed unable to decide if they wanted to be intimidating, confused, or worried. Derek willed himself not to glare too intensely or shove Scott off of him; he and the Sheriff didn't have the best history (his arrest for alleged murder, the whole ex-convict thing), so it was probably good that John see him all… _Pillow-like._ No matter how embarrassing it might be. The fact was, John equated Derek with the reason his kid came home late some nights beat-up and injured, and he hated the alpha for it. For dragging his beloved, _human_ son into all the dangerous supernatural bullshit he and the pack got tied up in. Derek didn't blame him, because a part of him hated himself for it too.

"Hale," John stated sharply, crossing his arms as he parked his feet in front of the alpha. "Er…" He trailed off, eyebrows switching back to 'really fucking confused' as a small snore escaped from Scott's lips. Derek blinked stonily.

"Sheriff," he returned, looking impassively up at him. John had always worn a forehead heavyset with wrinkles, but now he seemed to have gathered even more creases on his weathered face. Scott had mentioned that the Sheriff had recently come to hear the truth about the supernatural, which probably had something to do with it. That, and Derek figured years of raising _Stiles_ would do it for anybody.

The Sheriff cleared his throat, gaze flickering to Scott before landing back on Derek, his eyes unreadable.

"Have you seen his mother?" He asked curtly, loosely gesturing his pointer finger to the sleeping teen.

"Melissa is with Stiles," Derek responded calmly. "He was wheeled into surgery a little while ago."

"Yeah… Yeah, she mentioned that," John muttered, glancing down the hallway as if his son would suddenly appear there. He turned back, mouth falling open a bit as his eyes scanned Scott's body, which was littered with small flecks of earth and dusted with grey ash. A look of concern flickered on his face, temporarily replacing his defensive forefront.

"Do you… Do you have any idea what happened?" He asked, a bit of hardness leaving his voice.

"They were looking for a book," Derek sighed, glancing briefly at Scott. "One that would give us a better picture of what we're dealing with. They went underground to get it, in some old passageways Kate Argent used to… Stay in," he managed hesitantly. "They were down there when the earthquake hit."

The werewolf watched as the Sheriff bit his lip, nodding slowly as his gaze wandered to a fascinating stain on the floor.

"And, uh... How did _you_ come into the picture?" He posed cautiously, almost accusatory as he pinned Derek down with his gaze.

"I heard Scott's howl," Derek provided quietly, so no other people could hear. "I had a feeling they might have gone down there, and that's where I found them."

"Found them _where,_ exactly?"

"At the bottom of a ladder, by the entrance to the tunnels." He lowered his eyes, voice dropping so that it was barely audible. "Scott wasn't in the best shape, so I carried Stiles up."

John's inquisitive stare lingered on him for a minute. Derek stared back, feeling a bit like a felon before a jury as he forced himself not to break his gaze to the floor. Finally, the Sheriff blinked, pursing his lips together as he rubbed the back of his neck.

"Ah… I see," he murmured softly, looking at his shoes. He looked like he was about to say something else, but was cut off by a voice behind him.

"John!"

The Sheriff whipped around as Melissa McCall swiftly strode over to him, a mint green mask pulled down to her neck.

"Melissa," he breathed, stepping forward to gently clasp her by the arms. "Stiles, is he...?"

"He just got out of surgery," she said calmly, squeezing him assuredly by the shoulders. "His lung is all patched up, no complications. He's dehydrated, mildly concussed, and has some bruised ribs, four of which are broken. He's in recovery sleeping right now, but he's going to be just fine, John."

Derek watched as the Sheriff's expression melted into a sea of distressed wrinkles at the provided information. The man blew out a heavy sigh, absently pinching the bridge of his nose.

"Jesus," He muttered. "How long until…?"

"It should be awhile until he wakes up," Melissa provided gently. "Come with me and you can see him, unless you need to—?"

"No, no I don't," John cut in, quickly pulling out his phone. "I'll call Parrish. He'll handle the station for the evening. I'm not leaving my son," he finished firmly, steadily meeting Melissa's gaze. She nodded understandingly before turning to Derek, quickly hiding a small smile as she spotted Scott asleep on his shoulder.

"Derek, if you're willing to stick around for a little bit longer, I'll be off shift soon," she said, glancing over towards the entrance wall. The werewolf followed her gaze, spying the small clock above the double doors. It was nearing 11:00pm. Melissa looked exhausted; her curls were tangled with fly-aways and her eyes were red-rimmed, sinking into dark circles. Tension was splayed out across her brow, undoubtedly from the wide array of carnage and death she'd dealt with the duration of the past evening.

"Take your time," Derek stated, nodding slightly. Melissa cast another appreciative look his way, eyes flickering to her sleeping son again before whipping around and moving towards the hall.

"He's down this way."

"Hold on, Melissa."

Derek's eyebrows twitched as the Sheriff turned to face him, eyeing him with an unusually unguarded gaze as he took a step towards him. Melissa paused in the background, a hand flying to her lips as she watched him curiously.

"Ah, Listen… Derek," he started quietly, licking his lips as he struggled to find the right words. "Thank you… For, ah… For saving my kid," he finished softly, glancing at him with sad, pale blue eyes. _Eyes that have seen too much heartache,_ Derek thought. He had never really had the chance to notice it before. Usually the Sheriff looked at him with a veil of coldness, hiding the layer of pain underneath. It reminded Derek of his own eyes.

The alpha paused, caught off guard by John's words. Finally, he nodded awkwardly, the muscles in his haw flexing nervously.

"It was nothing, Sheriff."

John pressed his lips together as he nodded, letting his eyes linger on him a few more moments before turning back to Melissa, allowing her to walk him down the hall to his son. Derek watched them keenly, silently wondering if there was anything between the pair beyond friendship. He blinked heavily, suddenly tired himself, but refused to sleep. It wasn't in his nature to let his guard down, especially in a public place with too many sets of wandering eyes, but after a while he allowed his head to tip back against the shoulder of the chair and let his eyes slip shut. The next time he opened them, he was face-to-face with a slightly more disheveled Melissa McCall, who was gently shaking him by the shoulder. He jerked upright, sucking in a startled breath as he whipped his head towards the clock. It was just past 2:00am.

"Oh! Sorry, sweetheart, didn't mean to scare you," she whispered quickly, withdrawing her hand from his shoulder as if she had burned herself on a hot stove. Derek swallowed, feeling his cheeks burn slightly as he scooted higher up, blinking his surroundings into focus. Scott's head was still on his shoulder, a considerable trail of drool darkening the sleeve of his henley. He wrinkled his nose before he could stop himself and Melissa stifled a tired chuckle as she ran a hand through her son's hair.

"Scott? Wake up," she voiced gently, eyes flickering apologetically back to the older werewolf. "I'm _so_ sorry, Derek. There was just so much to do, with the quake and the patients in the west wing… They needed me to stay, but I can take Scott home now."

"It's fine," he replied passively, watching as Scott twitched, confusion flickering lazily across his features as his eyes fluttered open.

"Wha'…?" The teen slurred, freezing a split second as he seemed to realize he was draped over Derek's shoulder. _"Holy—!"_ He squeaked, jerking upright as his eyes widened, blinking rapidly as he fervently wiped his mouth with his sleeve. Derek huffed in amusement.

"Did I— Did y-you let _me—?"_ He stammered, looking at Derek as if he had sprouted another head.

"Scott, come on. We're going home," Melissa interjected, pulling him upright by the arm. A small, tired smile graced her her lips as she turned to Derek. "Thank you, Derek. I really appreciate it."

"Don't worry about it, Mrs. McCall."

The alpha rose, flexing his leg muscles as he stood. The waiting room was mostly empty now, with only a few dozing bodies occupying the stiff green chairs around them.

"Stiles?" Scott questioned groggily, turning to his mom as he rubbed his eyes with the back of his wrists.

"He's okay. He's sleeping now, his dad is with him," Melissa answered assuredly. "I'll take you to see him tomorrow morning."

The teen huffed tiredly, nodding begrudgingly. Derek mused. Knowing Scott, he probably would have preferred to stay the night by his friend's bedside.

"Hopefully our house won't be too shaken up," Melissa murmured absently, digging into her purse to find her car keys. "Will you be okay to get home, Derek? I can drive you if you—"

"It's alright," he cut in. His home wasn't that far off, and his stiff legs could use the run. "But thank you."

"Okay," she responded hesitantly. She turned as if to walk out the door, but paused and stepped forward instead, wrapping her arms around him in a hug before he could even register the action. He flinched and stiffened, completely caught off guard by the embrace as Scott gawked from behind her, wide-eyed and incredulous. Derek sucked in a startled breath, a thousand emotions flooding his chest —_shock, sadness, anger, joy, love_— but then they all left as quickly as they appeared when Melissa drew her arms away a moment later, quickly turning back to her son, who was still gaping like a fish.

"Come on, Scott, let's go home."

* * *

><p>Stiles was surprised to wake up.<p>

The last thing he remembered was feeling cold and numb, flat on his back and unable to breathe in a remote, underground cavern with Scott's freaked-out face filling his vision. It may have been a dream, but there were also some jumbled flashes of being in the backseat of a car and the worried faces of Melissa McCall and Derek Hale (who was never worried, so that was _definitely_ a dream). His chest had felt like fire and his mouth had been slippery and coppery with what felt a whole lot like blood, which is why he figured he probably wouldn't make it to the hospital scene, but when he opened his eyes he was met with the fuzzy imagery of sterile white walls and the sleeping form of Scott McCall slumped over the side of his bed.

Stiles blinked, wincing against the twinge in his torso. His eyes blearily travelled up the IV tubes sticking out of his arm to several clear bags of what was undoubtedly some pretty good painkillers, which he accredited to the lack of fiery inferno pain in his chest he experienced the last time he was awake. He blinked sleepily, inching his hand towards his friend's head of shaggy dark hair and nudged him with his knuckle. Scott immediately bolted upright, snorting awake as his eyes focused on Stiles, going from disoriented sleepy puppy to I-thought-you-were-dead-but-now-you're-alive ecstatic in about half a second.

_"Stiles!"_

"'Eeyyy, buddy."

Scott grinned, scooting his chair forward so that his knees came right up to the bedside.

"How are you feeling?" He asked.

"Like I've been put in a washing machine on spin cycle," Stiles groaned weakly, wrinkling his nose. "How long've I been here?"

"Since late last night," Scott provided. "It's about two in the afternoon now."

"How'd… Weren't we underground?" Stiles asked hesitantly, trying to iron out his fuzzy thoughts.

"Yeah, Derek found us. My—"

"Wait, so that _wasn't_ a dream?"

"What? No, Derek was there," Scott continued. "My mom came once we were back outside the trap door. She did this thing… With a pen, to get you to breathe again. Then she drove us to the hospital. Your dad came and stayed with you overnight, but my mom made him go back to the station a couple hours ago. She practically had to drag him from the room."

"That'a girl, mama McCall," Stiles murmured approvingly, weakly raising his fist to the air. _Melissa McCall, saving his dad's job one day at a time._ He blinked, trying to grasp the few wisps of patchy memory he had from the previous night.

"The earthquake," He said softly. "Your house… Mine? Any damages?"

"It was magnitude eight point five," Scott responded solemnly, as if he actually knew the Richter scale. "A few bookshelves toppled over at my place. Your dad said the same for your house, but that's it. The west wing of the hospital collapsed though, so did the highway seventy overpass and some other buildings. I guess the foundation was older or something."

"Shit," Stiles murmured. He attempted to prop himself up on his elbows but failed with a wince, flopping back against his pillows as he looked anxiously to Scott. "What about Lydia? Allison? The choir concert was last night, is the school—"

"BHHS is still standing," Scott cut in flatly, expression falling. Stiles gawked.

_"Seriously?"_ He demanded, rubbing a hand over his pounding temples as he drove his head back against his pillow. "Of _all_ the places to be left standing," he muttered bitterly, incredulous.

"I know," Scott nodded sympathetically. "It's closed today though, while the city recovers from all the other damages. You may even be out of here before it reopens, so your work load shouldn't be too bad. Allison and everyone else are fine... Only _you_ managed to get hurt," He finished, a twinge of sadness entering his voice.

"What can I say? The pretty ones are always high at risk for being whumped," Stiles jested dryly with a small wave of his hand. Scott didn't smile.

"I'm serious, Stiles," the alpha pressed earnestly. "We don't like seeing you get hurt like this. Next time my mom might not be there with a pen. You don't heal like the rest of us, you're only—"

"Human?"

Scott snapped his lips shut, eyebrows dancing nervously on his forehead.

"That's just it, Scott. I _like_ being human," Stiles stated, lips twitching in a small smile, as if the notion amused him. "I know I may not have Derek Hale biceps of steel or furry cheeks, but sometimes it's nice to know that I don't need to chain myself up on the night of the full moon, or find a manicurist who gets paid enough to file two-inch claws. Yeah, it'd be nice to be able to pick locks sometimes, but just being Stiles is good enough for me. At least right now," he finished, letting out a small sigh as he met his brother's eyes.

Scott stared back, lips tugging into a smirk against his will. _This was why he loved him._

"Well, just Stiles is _more_ than good enough for me," he said firmly, clapping his hand over his friend's wrist and squeezing gently. "You're the guy that runs with wolves, dude."

Stiles grinned.

"Damn straight."

* * *

><p>Scott shivered against the icy wind that bit through his jacket, nipping his arms with gooseflesh as he flew down the road to the interstate, his bike tires kicking up sprays of coffee-colored dirt. The sun was setting, bathing the town in a golden light that made the quake's path of destruction seem much less menacing that it actually was. He had left the hospital about ten minutes ago, after Stiles's dad came back from the station. He and Stiles had spent the afternoon reading comic books and balancing spoonfuls of cherry Jell-O on their noses (much to the disarray of the nurses, who didn't appreciate the mess they made on the sheets), so Scott figured it was time to step back and let the Sheriff spend some time with his son.<p>

_"I dunno, looks like some kind of underground tunnel network."_

Scott screeched to a halt as he slammed on his brakes, nearly chucking himself forward onto the asphalt. He whipped his head in the direction of the faraway voice, spotting a police car and a few uniform-clad officers moving by the edge of the woods, right where the trap door to Kate's old passageways was.

Heart pounding, he revved his handlebars and made a beeline down the road, engine rumbling to a halt as he rolled up to the scene. He quickly tore off his helmet, eyes widening as he spotted the trap door, which was currently being taped off by a couple officers. The earth surrounding the entrance was completely caved in, stretching a good thirty feet into the woods. It was as if a bulldozer had raked a claw through the forest floor, right above where he and Stiles had been less than twenty-four hours prior.

"Whoa, hold it there, kid."

One of the officers was approaching him, his lips pinched into a firm line as Scott quickly hopped off his bike, eyes still flickering to the trap door a few feet away.

"What happened here, officer?" He asked breathlessly. He clutched his helmet close to his chest, fingers pressing against the smooth finish.

"Apparently it used to be some kind of underground base," the policeman replied grimly, his hard features tensing as he eyed Scott curiously. "Looks like it collapsed sometime late last night, probably weakened by the quake. Do you uh, know anything about it?" He asked, eyes narrowing as his calloused fingers twitched by his side, ready to draw out his notepad.

"N-no. No, sir," Scott said quickly, struggling to keep his breathing under control. His answer conjured a strange look, but the officer seemed to buy it, turning his attention back to the scene with a small nod.

"Well, this is a restricted area now, kid. You should ride on home before it gets dark."

"Wait," Scott blurted. The officer glanced at him, his eyebrows shooting to his hairline.

"Need an escort?"

"No, no thank you," Scott stammered, taking a step back. He was gripping his helmet so hard he worried it might snap in two. "Were there… Did you find anyone down there?"

"No," the policeman answered, shaking his head. "Place looks like it was abandoned. Good thing no one was inside when it caved in, though. No human would have made it out of that mess alive."

Scott swallowed dryly, heart hammering wildly against his eardrums as he took another step back, gaze glued to the crumbled wreckage of rock and dirt that littered the parameters of the police tape.

"Sure you don't need an escort, kid? You don't look so—"

"I'm fine," He said quickly, his tone clipped as he spun on his heels and went back to his bike, willing his hands not to shake as he jammed on his helmet.

"Well, alright," the officer stated hesitantly, features pinching in bewilderment as he watched him clumsily mount his motorcycle. "Drive safe, kid."

"T-thanks, officer."

Scott kicked the ignition and yanked the handgrips, tires screeching as they whirred, shooting a flurry of dead leaves into the air. He raced to the edge of the woods, sharply jerking the handlebars to the left as he jumped back onto the road. The wind stung goosebumps into his skin again as he flew down the long stretch of cement, but this time it was a different kind of chill.

_No human would have made it out of that mess alive_

Scott sucked in a shaky breath through his nose, letting the frigid air sting his lungs. It hurt less than the stab of terror in his chest, which rampaged with the truth of the officer's words. A quell of anger momentarily flared in his abdomen; _this was his fault._ If it weren't for his shitty supernatural powers and the crazy, messed-up world of danger and throat-ripping were-creatures and hunters they came with, Stiles would never be dragged into any of the pack's crazy missions. He would never be put in danger. Stiles would be so much better off if Peter had never given Scott the damn _bite._

Scott gritted his teeth, the threat of tears pricking at his eyes. Then he lessened his white-knuckled grip on the accelerator, his anguish quickly dissipating as he realized— _No._ The bite was a _blessing._ He didn't like to think of it that way most of the time —in fact, he hated the bite and everything it represented— but last night, it was a blessing. Without his powers, he would have suffocated to death with a broken back beneath a pile of rubble. He never would have been able to find Stiles and drag him free from his own entrapment. He never would have had the strength to carry his friend to the foot of the ladder and howl for help in the dark shaft that he was certain would be the last thing he ever see. Without the bite— they would both be _dead._

_Good thing no one was inside when it caved in_

Scott blew a long breath out between his lips, noting the small tickle in the back of his throat, as if it were coated in dust.

"Yeah," he breathed aloud. "Good thing."

* * *

><p><strong>The End!<strong> :) Thank you all so much for following and showing your support, it means so much. Reviews are **greatly** appreciated! Thank you everyone who took the time to leave a comment, and exciting news; The Stiles Whump Community is now the most-followed community on FF dot net :D Whoohoo! I've got more stories lined up and ready to go; the next one is currently in the works. Derek/Stiles/bromance enthusiasts, be prepared ;) Until next time! Love, The Typewriter Girl.


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